


Rebirth

by panda_shi



Series: Rebirth [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed, Extremis Tony Stark, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not A Fix-It, Not A Happy Ending, Not Happy, Not Really Character Death, Possible Character Death, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tony Stark Angst, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony-centric, WinterIron if you squint hard, tony stark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 105,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you think of life and death on a continuum, finding the point where it tips is complicated. It cuts across all political lines and gets to the root of our humanity. It requires faith informed by years of intimacy that you're doing what's right for your loved one. </p><p>But Tony is just a man. And there's only so much he can do.</p><p>(Or that time when Tony does what is necessary to survive just so that he can continue to fix things and makes extremely rash decisions; because even if Steve may have left him behind, doesn't mean Tony would do the same. Kind of.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act

**Author's Note:**

> I've picked the MCU as my main canon for this story, however, this will be an AU-post-CACW. I will be using mild references (though not a 100%) from the Civil War comic and Iron Man Extremis (my gosh, do I love this comic) to fill in some plot-holes for the storyline's sake.
> 
> This is still a work in progress and while I have a fixed direction of where this is going to go (and it doesn't look very happy), knowing me, it'll probably change along the way. I am unsure.
> 
> Meanwhile, can we please just shove Tony and Steve into a Get-Along-Shirt, prettypleaseomg.

_“A man does not die of love or his liver or even of old age; he dies of being a man.”_

_Percival Arland Ussher_

 

  
Tony thinks that the shield coming down upon his arc reactor had been the wake-up call he had needed for a very long time.

  
He counts months  


So many months of his conscious mind being submerged in the comforts of a team, a _family_ , a child’s dream of being surrounded by friends, or people that one can relate to as a brother, or a sister, or that weird uncle or distant second cousin, twice removed. Tony thinks that the only reason he had been snagged hook, line and sinker by the entire goddamn _package_ is because he had known no better than the comforts of cold marble and vast gardens, of summer houses and private jets, of strangers being paid by the thousands to keep an eye one him, to serve him, to cater to his every whim. He knows of a long sixteen seater dining table, where the chairs had always been too big for him, and the smooth oak had always looked endless from where he sits at one end, while the rest of the chairs lining his left and his right remains empty. He understands solitude and maybe, his intelligence had also been his saving grace. His intelligence and _need_ to keep his hands busy, to be constantly inspired to think of ideas that seems so out of reach, to think beyond the stars, had saved him to a point, while eating away at his soul and fueling his anxiety, that without Tony realizing it, had consumed him.  


It’s the price to pay, he thinks, growing up in the shadow of Howard Stark. Howard had been involved in some of the greatest things the world has ever seen: being a founding member of SHIELD, and scientist who revolutionized the engineering, weaponry and the business world, being a key scientist in possibly one, if not the only, successful Super Soldier program — Tony had lost count of his father’s successes.  


And somewhere along the way, like a child looking at a towering gargantuan hero, Tony had dreamed.  
 

He had dreamed of humanitarian movements that would make the world a better place.  
 

His dream had been big, fueled by clean energy, sustainable housing, healthcare that was thorough and cheap and accessible to anyone, of barren wastelands flourishing with green, of droughts replaced with blue that would seem endless to the human eye. He dreamed of making the earth a better place with the help of technology.  
 

Tony had kept on dreaming because apparently, dreams are the only things that he had now, the only things that rob him of sleep, that slams doors on his face and the bringer of warm comforts and memories of Christmas melodies being played on a grand piano.  
 

Even after the captivity, after the torture, after barely managing years of palladium poisoning, after burying years of trauma that he should have handled as they had come to him, Tony had kept on dreaming.  
  


But somewhere along the way, his need to constantly not be alone and not just surrounded by images confined to the times when he closes his eyes, his need to be surrounded by people who had been capable of keeping up with him, to be a part of something that represented something greater than himself, to work with the Super Soldier, the infamous Captain America that his never had never stopped talking about, the man that he had grown to dislike and later on hate as a child, if only because he had seemed so great, an icon and a legend.  
 

It had been every little boy’s dream, to be in the same team as Captain America.  
  


(His father certainly _never stopped_ talking about the Super Soldier.)  
  


And Tony had that.  
  


Captain America, in all his stars and stripes and Old Glory blue, had been nothing more than a distraction.  
  


And nothing had felt more heart shattering, than seeing his friend, or who he thought had been his friend, a man he had grown to love and care about, want to end him with killing intent so palpable, it had felt as cold as the memory of all the empty rooms and endless polished halls of what Tony had remembered as _home_.  
  


Well.  
  


Unless one is staring at the holographic image of one’s diseased heart and lungs.  
  


The feeling is almost similar, Tony realizes. Knowing that you’re gradually dying and realizing that you are about to die in a second.  
  


Tony realizes then, as he laughs with such bitterness while Friday advises him of the top cardiologist and internists of the world to consult with, that the clichéd saying that a veil is lifted from your eyes when you realize that your clock is ticking, that you do not have a lot of days left under your belt, is actually, absolutely, _hilariously_ true. That when he really sits thinks about his limited time, the phantom feeling of his armor cracking and force of the shield shattering his arc reactor and reverberating all the way past the scars and synthetic they had to use to fill the hole in his chest _engulfs_ him like a tidal wave.  
  


And he’s left with nothing but short breaths and his heart palpating at alarming rates, while his head swims and he feels his body start to shut down and he just can’t _breathe_ and all he knows then, in that short moment, is _fear_ and the Perfect Soldier, the man that he had thought was his friend, the man he had thought would come to see him as someone important or _something important_ , looking down at him with his fists tight around the edge of the vibranium shield and killing intent, or a flash of it, so, _so sharp_ , that just the memory of it is enough to make Tony’s heart stop for _good_.  
  


Well, it’s not like the hole in his chest had completely disappeared _anyway._  
  


(Maybe it never did.)  
  


He tries not to think about Steve Rogers, or his blue eyes, or his clenched teeth and how he had looked like when he had tried to stop him from punching Sergeant Barnes’ teeth in. He tries hard to not think of the good days, of their times together, when they had a real home, a real family. Tony tries so hard to just _not_ think of Steve Rogers at all, because Steve Rogers at some point made his heart race. It made sense that Steve Rogers would also be the one to make it stop dead.  
  


It’s then, amidst the self-loathing, the pain, the regret, and _disgust_ , that Tony remembers his dream.  
  


The _real_ dream.  
  


The dream that had been born to a boy who had been alone most of his life.  
 

The boy who had wanted to _make_ a _real_ difference.  
  


(And a good job that boy has done so far, huh? What have you done, Tony? Besides manufacture weapons of mass destruction for years and leveling major cities. Good job there, by the way. You’ve only wasted about three quarters of your life, at this point, achieving _nothing_.)  
 

Well, Tony figures, dying alone after that cluster-fuck of a mess does not seem so bad.  
  


In fact, it is starting to look like a brilliant and peaceful idea.  
 

—  
  


One would think that someone like Tony Stark would invest all his effort, time, and resources into trying to figure out how to fix his heart and his lungs. One would think that his first tall order at the bar would be a tall glass of ideas-on-how-to-cure-cardiovascular-disease-for-good-on-the-rocks with a shot-of-cancer-cure-for-even-the-most-wicked-son-of-a-bitches-on-earth. What he gets instead is a diagnosis of, much to his not-surprise, cancer and heart failure; they’re calling it cancer for the lack of a better terminology. Tony supposes that the arc reactor had something to with it and as with all diseases, it would only manifest much later; how typical. He doesn’t listen to the medical terms, or the advice for treatment, let alone the options for treatment. He does listen though, as to how it will affect him. Which, if Tony chooses to be honest with himself, sounds like an absolute pain in the ass. It certainly had explained a lot of the headaches and arm numbness he’s been feeling for a while.  
  


He does hear the fact that if he is lucky, he’s got a few months. Tony makes an appointment to start treatment.  
  


And never shows up.  
  


Because on that day, when he wakes up from the unending dreams of terror, of the taste of blood in his mouth, peppered with the bitterness of betrayal and the feeling of his heart about to explode in his chest because it’s _that_ damn dream again, the one where Steve had smashed his helmet to the side with his shield along with the light Tony had worn proudly over his apparently failing heart, on that particular day, Tony figures out what he would rather do.  
  


Tony calls Pepper immediately.  
 

And he finds it incredibly amusing that he has to wait several minutes to reach the CEO of his company and when he finally does reach her, he tells her, “I have a plan. And it’s going to, maybe, pave way to a brighter future and it’s everything you would love. I want to accomplish it in a year. I am actively stepping away from the Avengers and the politics until further notice. Can you help me?”  
  


Pepper agrees and Tony hears the hesitation.  
  


But he doesn’t care.  
 

His next call is to General Ross.  
  


That call, much to his irritation, takes longer than he had expected.  
  


Tony is aware that he had given Pepper a time frame of a year, when the medical professionals and all other second, third, fourth and even fifth opinion suggests otherwise. The moment he hangs up on Ross, he is up and packing his suitcase and telling Vision that he has something to do and that he should use his judgment to do as the Accords bid him. After all, if there is one being who is capable of making calculated decisions, it’s Vision.  
  


Tony knows that if he wants to achieve remotely half of the ideas that are swimming in his head, in his present condition that will only worsen, he needs fail safes in place. He knows that at some point, he will most likely end up bed ridden, maybe unable to care for himself, and maybe, his limbs and most of all, his mind would betray him. He’s not worried about not being able to move; he still has his suits to assist him with that, if he gets _too_ desperate. His primary concern is his mind and Extremis had been sitting dormant and untouched since he had fixed Pepper up years ago; Tony knows he needs to work fast.  
  


And he knows that it doesn’t necessarily have to work.  
  


But what is the worse than can happen?  
  


He’ll die?  
 

Tony snorts at his train of thoughts and locks his suit case, only to find Vision hovering on the other side of the bed, looking at him with an unreadable expression and tilt to his head.  
  


“Are you certain this is wise?”  
  


“For who, the government or myself?” Tony looks away from the pointed look Vision gives him. Funny how, even without eyebrows, Vision seems to be very capable of being expressive while not moving much of his synthetic facial muscles. “You want an honest answer?” Vision doesn’t move. Tony doesn’t look at him as he turns to his night stand to pick up his watch. “I don’t care.”  
  


“That seems rather odd of you to say, given everything that has happened.” There is a pause in the room and Tony is staring at the reflection of mirror, at the opposite side of the room where he has the shield leaning against the wall. “What has changed?”  
  


Tony looks away from the shield and swallows thickly. He opens the drawer to his nightstand instead, picks up an old flip-phone that is every bit as tech-offending as memory of the person who had sent it to him and tosses it towards Vision. The action makes something in Tony’s chest clench painfully that he goes very still, sucking a slow breath; he knows this is for the best.  
  


“When the time comes and you think it’s _necessary_ , call Rogers."  
  


Tony watches as realization flickers into Vision’s eyes, too bright and almost divine to be human. But in that very moment, like a small flame in a vast dark room, Tony thinks that Vision looks the most human; he can almost see the dots connect in Vision’s mind and briefly, Tony feels guilt. He almost sees Jarvis, the _real_ Edwin Jarvis, just for a brief moment and Tony knows his talent of bottling things up has been perfected to a T, but the grief hits him quite hard then that his hand comes up to his chest, rubbing at the almost _pinch_ ing sensation beyond the synthetic sternum. How he misses Jarvis, and Vision standing there looking at him _like that_ , makes the memory of his deceased care-taker and friend, so painfully _raw_ that Tony feels like he’s three again.

“Is everything _all right_ , Mr. Stark?” 

Blinking the sudden swell of emotion away, Tony gives Vision his media smile.  
  


“Never better, Vee. Never better.”

 

TBC


	2. Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is turning into some sort of monster.
> 
> What was meant to be a short one shot is now expanding further and further. I am going to regret this later but here's to hoping that I kind of don't?

 

"Faith and hope work hand in hand, however while hope focuses on the future, faith focuses on the now."  
_David Odunaiya, _David Odunaiya, How To Make Faith Work In Your Life__

 

If there is one thing Tony thinks he can do without, it’s the sudden pocket bursts of fatigue that overwhelms him when he is not aware. He understands human biology, he understands that when he works twenty hours a day and avoid sleep, at some point, like an overloaded computer, his body too, would shut down and require a restart. He just wishes that it would not happen so often. He remembers days when had been able to go on for days on end with little to almost no sleep.

He doesn’t know what he should be more thankful for.

The fact that he falls asleep in the middle of remodelling schematics or when he’s right in the middle of coding, or the fact that these little ‘shut-downs’ result in dreamless sleeps.

(You don’t want to admit it, but you’re afraid to close your eyes and sleep.)

Tony pushes himself off his work bench. It’s smaller than what he used to have in his Malibu mansion. It definitely does not compare to his work space in the Avengers Compound. There are times when the pettiness in him would rear its ugly head and wish that he had taken a little more time in choosing which safe house to use as his current place of work. Lyden is as dry as they come. It would be the last place anyone would think Tony Stark would hang out in. Had circumstances been different, Tony would have hated staying in such a dreary little town. He had bought the property and refurbished it ensuring that there is a functioning med-bay, laboratory and rehabilitation space underground. There is a landing pad behind the house along with a garage which is actually disguise for an underground bunker that is stocked with enough arms and equipment that would have impressed Phil Coulson himself. The little country house is probably the most wired and technologically advanced property in the state of Washington.

Tony is sure the amount of security in his little country house trumps that of the White House.

The house being smaller does not make it any less empty.

And in his isolation, Tony avoids sleep because he does not want to die repeatedly. He does not want to wake up in sweat and choking on his own fear, feeling the pressure of the shield smashing down his chest or the feels of fingers wrapping around his arc reactor. He avoids sleep to avoid giving himself an actual heart failure. It’s a good thing, he tells himself, that he is alone with nothing but Dummy, You, Butterfingers and Friday to keep him company.

It is a good thing to be isolated where no one can see him at his most _vulnerable_ and _weakest_.

Tony thinks, that this isolation and _silence_ gives his mind the capacity to perform at its fullest without distraction. He thinks that, right there, in the house where the silence resembles that of a distant ring deep within his ear drums, he works at his best. He is far from being updated with the comings and goings of his company; Pepper makes sure that he is kept in the loop with the progress of their stocks, press releases, board meetings and marketing team.

In one month, their over all profit soars by almost 67%.

Within the second month, Tony and Pepper single handedly manage to land join venture deals with two of China’s leading robotics manufacturer and solidify further business presence in the Middle East; the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait and Qatar alone has agreed to implement Stark’s technology in its leading state universities. Shortly after that, privately funded universities from Egypt, Jordan and Kenya do the same.

Within the third month, more than ten countries in Europe and another six in South East Asia has pushed proposals forward for alternative energy solutions that adds another ten percent to Stark Industries’ overall profit gain.

Two weeks into the fourth month, Tony has completed reviewing schematics for _all_ those proposals and just two days ago, he had ended a call with Pepper concluding that they have _easily_ , hands down, _created_ over eighty thousand worth of jobs. The TIMES has been on his HR’s team ass _begging_ for an interview. Tony Stark’s photo has been circulating the press, with sensationalised headlines. Stark Industries is expanding at a rapid rate and al because Tony has spent four solid months developing consumer goods ranging from tablets to cellphones, prosthetics for war veterans, software development, safety in construction and development, home security systems and sustainable _and_ affordable solar and wind powered technologies. There are nights when Tony takes a pause, and this is usually when he has nodded off out of exhaustion, and looks around the things he’s done and wonders, _why the hell did I not think of this earlier_?

Tony is _everywhere_.

And yet nowhere.

He is in the middle of tinkering with a Stark Phone when the music volume lowers and Friday’s voice cuts through the lyrics of Thunderstruck.

“Sir, Colonel Rhodes is on the line. Shall I patch him through?”

Tony blinks slowly and brings a hand to his eyes. He cannot remember the last time he has consumed _anything_. He stares at the holographic image of Rhodey’s face illuminating in the middle of the room, the word ‘hold’ flashing in red. Truth be told, he had intended to speak to Rhodey before he had gone on his little Avenger sabbatical. Rhodey had been the next name on the list after Pepper. But one thing lead to another and Tony had just… forgotten.

(This is why people leave you. This is why Stark men are always _alone_. You Starks are just so incapable of communicating.)

“Put him through.” Tony says and doesn’t even recognise the sound of his own voice.

Two seconds later, Rhodey’s voice fill the space of Tony’s workshop.

“I am starting to wonder if you’re doing that hiding thing you do because you’re feeling guilty or you just have something against me, Tones.”

Tony can hear the disappointment in Rhodey’s voice. And he just wants to tell him that it isn’t like that. Tony opens his mouth to tell him that he had not meant for things to go the way they had.

“Rhodey bear…”

“When were you planning to even _tell me_ that you gave Ross the metaphorical finger? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I found out not too long after you left, but really, Tony?”

Tony holds his breath for two seconds before he feels a weight settle on his chest that is not the least bit comforting.

“I had to make a business like decision.”

“No kidding.” Rhodey snorts. “What a decision that has been. Seriously, man, you are _everywhere_. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing, Tones. I’m gonna cut the chase though and ask you if you’re even planning on getting on this whole Accords development and adjustment saga that’s been going on for a while.”

Tony brings the heels of his hands and presses it against his eyelids, elbows coming up to rest on his work bench.

There it is.

The million dollar question.

Does he?

Pepper had asked him the very same question after they had brainstormed with a business plan to implement the changes and profits Tony had needed to make if he had wanted to make a _difference_. After all, the money to ensure _change_ had to come from _somewhere_. Besides, it’s not like Tony had completely severed ties with news of the Accords’ development. If anything, it’s background noise to him; something he can hear about, but doesn’t take action against or for.

“Pepper mentioned mentioned something about it being up to a hundred fifty countries now?”

“So you do keep up.”

Tony actually smiles at that. “You know me. I want to know everything.”

“Cut the bullshit, Tony.” Rhodey sounds serious. “ _What_ are you doing?”

Tony looks up at the photo of his best friend then, and feels something in his stomach churn, like acid spreading erosion heat all over his belly and spreading up to his chest. Rhodey knows something is up, and Tony knows that whatever he chooses to say now, Rhodey will call him out on his bullshit. He almost tells him the real reason right then and there, in the middle of his safe house that feels too much like a coffin than that of a house, let alone a _home_.

Instead, “The truth is,” Tony’s voice is shaky and for a moment there is silence until Rhodey says a ‘Tony?’ to make sure he’s still there. “The truth is Rhodey, I’m _tired_ of — you know.” _Not mattering. Failing. Dying. Not doing enough. Wasting time on things that had felt so good but look where that got me._ “Of it all. The politics. Ross. I just.” _I just want to not think of how I feel for a change and just work. Like I should have been all this years._ “I just think it’s high time I invest in things that  _actually_ work and make a difference and positive impact in other ways. Other than, you know, levelling cities and causing casualties.”

There is a pause.

The pinch in Tony’s chest starts to grow and Tony doesn’t know where it emotional pain starts and physical pain ends; he no longer knows the difference anymore.

“Tony…”

“It’s just temporary. Until I get my head around a few things.” Tony says quickly. “Besides, you know me. I’ve done my research. Do you really think I would have let go of this entire fiasco if I didn’t think there is someone else out there fighting the good fight on our behalf? Have you heard of Hank McCoy? I hear talk that Susan Storm has recently stepped in expressing some sort of positive ideas, which, by extension means, the Fantastic Four is involved. Ross hasn't even bothered me in a while; he's got his hands full with those people, mind you.”

“Well, yeah…”

“I’m not worried, Rhodey.” _I don’t want to_ ** _care_** _anymore_. “It’ll be okay. Why else would additional countries get involved if it wasn’t moving towards a positive direction?”

“That may be it, but you know Ross, Tones. He’s not gonna sit tight without making sure he’s got some sort of solid control.”

Tony rubs his hands over his face and stands up then, moving towards the fridge in the far corner and pulling the door open. He pulls out a water bottle and takes a long swig from it. “I’m not worried.”

Rhodey hums and there is a pause between them.

Tony thinks of his days in MIT, when he had first met Rhodey. He thinks of their days on campus and off campus, of drunken escapades and endless partying and concerts. He thinks of how Rhodey has been there for him for a good portion of his life, and even now, despite the fact that Tony is remotely updating the programming of Rhodey’s prosthetics, despite the fact that Tony is keeping all eyes on Rhodey and his physiotherapy progress, it is Rhodey who is still looking out for him and his well being.

It’s always been Rhodey.

And shortly after Rhodey, Pepper and Happy had come into the picture.

It’s always been those three.

“It’s gonna be all right, Tony.” Rhodey says, and Tony feels something prickle at the back of his eyes. Tony looks at the far end of the lab, past the glass panels where the medical bay and workshop storage share space; from where he stands, he can see the the newly modified Mark VII. It is also the same storage room he has placed his modified version of Extremis. It’s the first thing he had worked on once reaching Lyden. If the impending ‘heart failure’ does happen, or ‘liver failure’ or ‘kidney failure’ or ‘everything failure’ as the doctors warned him about, at least Tony knows he can buy himself extra time with Extremis and work remotely i.e. his hospital bed.

Assuming Extremis works.

It is hard to tell without this version of it being tested.

But, _yeah. Sure. It’ll be okay._

“Hey.” Tony says, clearing his throat after another swig of his water bottle. “Remember that time after graduation? When we got front row exclusive tickets to an ACDC concert? And there was this girl Alisha who had spilt beer all over you?”

“My god, Tones, I can’t believe you still remember _that_!”

“Oh come on!”

“Tony, Alisha wouldn’t leave me _alone_! I was _stalked_ for _months_!”

Tony _laughs._ Oh how he suddenly laughs like he hasn’t laughed before, just recalling the memory and sure enough, Rhodey too, is laughing. The sound of both their laughter reverberates across the house, shaking the silence right out of its foundation, like blowing dust out of its abandonment. For a moment, the house almost _breathes_ with their laughter.

“I wanna go again.” Tony says suddenly, when he catches his breath and brushes away the tears from his eyes. “An ACDC concert. Just like old days. Think you can manage a concert, Honey Bear?”

“Well, I think I'm getting better..."

Tony is pulling out the official ACDC webpage and looking at concert dates. “They’re planning a local tour two months from now; early bird tickets goes live next month. What do you say?”

There is a pregnant pause, then Tony can feel the wide _grin_ on Rhodey’s voice when he responds, “Yeah. Why the hell not.”

Tony makes a note for Friday to purchase two tickets.

He also make fail safe arrangements that will work around Rhodey's current physical limitations.

 —

By the time the fifth month starts, Tony gives into board pressure (because HR and Pepper can only do so much to keep things at bay) and agrees with the boards’ call that a press release is necessary. They had asked Tony to be the face the world sees during this press release but Tony turns it down and pushes Pepper to deliver it instead as CEO of Stark Industries.

The press release starts a media shit storm.

And rather than the media asking about the relief projects that has finally gotten its green signal in Sokovia, rather than the media focusing on the most unfounded _success_ of almost any industry on the planet in a short time, they bombard her with questions about Tony’s absence, about his lack of presence as Iron Man and an Avenger, about his involvement with the Accords and his knowledge on the whereabouts of the other Avengers. They bombard Pepper with questions about his lack of presence _anywhere_ except with Stark Industries HR claims that yes, it’s Tony Stark’s mind and ideas fuelling their recent success. And Pepper simply reiterates the same point over and over again: Tony Stark is investing his energy and ingenuity in making a positive impact both socially and economically. She backs it up with facts and numbers.

She tells them, that yes, Tony Stark is actually _working_. _Very. Hard._

She tells the world that Tony Stark is investing in things that matter: the people and the future.

She tells them that despite the profits, Stark Industries is giving  _back_ to the people.

She then breaks it to them how numerous educational foundations has been further erected worldwide, encouraging the young minds to develop and contribute to a brighter and more solid future. She tells them how Stark Industries has awarded scholarships to numerous individuals nationwide and further expanding. She tells them about the donations, the progress with war veterans being integrated into society, how employment rates have increased — the facts are endless.

Tony remembers right then and there why he had been attracted to Pepper, why he still feels that warm attraction, watching her deflect and give firm answers to every single reporter. Pepper has come a long way from being a mere personal assistant. On that podium, in front of all those people and the world, Pepper is an iron fist.

Tony has never felt more confident in the safety and hands Stark Industries is going to be left with than right in that very moment.

“Don’t mess with my girl.” Tony chuckles, just as Pepper concludes the press release and steps away from the podium.

It is two weeks later just as Stark Industries has officially started construction and ground work in Sokovia, one dreary morning that Tony gets the message that he least expects.

“Sir, I’ve got an message flagged as urgent from King T’challa.”

“Summary?”

“It looks like a project proposal, sir. Do you want see the attachments?”

Tony is in his cold kitchen, pouring coffee. “Bring it up.” He pulls out the phone from his pocket, flicks it in the air once and immediately, Friday is projecting the attachments. Documents and diagrams to an advanced Hydraulics system fill the space of the small kitchen. And on one side, Tony reads T’challa’s single message that reads:  _interested?_

Tony responds with two words:

_Convince me._

Five hours later, T’challa sends him a video of a prototype that is currently running in Wakanda.

Needless to say, Tony is curious enough to respond back with a:

 _When’s our date?_  
  
\---

Pepper is almost disappointed at Tony that he chooses Wakanda to be the first place to step into after months of being an almost hermit Tony Stark style. After all, he only ever steps out if he has to actually be physically present at board meetings (a rare thing) or if he has to meet Pepper in person to sign some papers. As far as travelling goes, that's the most he does.  
  
Tony however, is not disappointed.  
  
Watching the holographic demonstration of the hydraulics system playing out before him, Tony feels like he is ten years old again.  
  
Tony thinks that _this_ is worth the long ass trip and stepping out of his shell.  
  
If he had to pick one moment in the past four months where he had been the _most_ excited, where he had felt the presence of _joy_ so profound that the pinch in his chest actually feels _warm_ for a change, it would be this very moment.  
  
“It’s brilliant.” Tony says, just a touch breathless.  
  
And like a switch, Tony is asking T’challa and his team endless questions, probabilities and possibilities of expanding and compressing applications. T’challa’s team is more than happy to engage, more than willing to indulge in the futurist’s curiosity and excitement, because this is after all, Anthony Stark. Through it all, T’challa watches in silence, leaning back against his chair with his three assistants on either side of him, like sentinels observing the play of emotions that are dancing quite openly on Tony’s face, the face that now looks years younger now that the jaded and bitter lines have been replaced by something a lot warmer. Tony forgets for a moment that he is with a King and it isn’t until he catches his reflection against one of the glass panels of the conference room, when he sees how broad and _real_ the smile is on his face, the glow of inspiration in eyes that had been remained shadowed and hooded for far too long that he stops short. Like a deer caught in headlights.  


(You don’t even recognise yourself, do you?)  
  
For the first time in a really long time, Tony feels genuine heat of embarrassment crawl up past the collar of his shirt and blooming faintly on his cheekbones. And just like that, the mask comes up too quick when Tony catches the gaze of the King.  
  
“Your Highness, I will take absolute great pleasure in letting the board of Stark Industries know about this project venture. I must say, the trip is well worth it.”  
  
T’challa rises from his seat and starts to button his suit. “I do not doubt you will, Mr. Stark. My team will provide you with whatever material you need to convince the rest of your board.”  
  
“I would love to say that this project is a go-green on behalf of Stark Industries, however, Pepper would have my head if I don’t play my politics right.” Tony gives a bit of shrug. There is truth in his words but Tony wants more time to study the designs and reports time before making a final decision. “Business these days.” Tony punctuates his words with an eye roll.  
  
“You have all the time in the world, Mr. Stark. Take as much time as you need to convince your board.”  
  
Tony’s laugh is dry. It is almost as if what had happened half an hour ago had not happened at all. “I’d appreciate it if your team could upload what is necessary to my server? I can access it from the jet, then. Unfortunately, clock’s ticking and I have a lot of things I actually, have deadlines to meet.” Tony realises how funny that sounds. “Funny, that, isn’t it?”  
  
T’challa hums and gives a nod to one of the technicians, who scampers away immediately. “If it’s all the same, there is another matter I wish to discuss with you. I understand that you are a busy man these days. Walk with me, Mr. Stark.”  
  
It is hard for Tony to not frown and cock an eyebrow at the same time. He supposes this is to be expected. T’challa is the first person outside of Pepper and Happy and his board to see him physically; why wouldn’t T’challa take advantage. Tony knows this, had expected it. But he says nothing and gives T’challa shrug, following him out the door all the same.  
  
They walk down the hallway that is lined with glass on one side that gives a view of the jungle beyond. It seems to stretch on and on, now painted a fiery orange as the sun starts to set over the horizon. Tony wants to laugh at himself for being such a sap and admiring jungle sunsets. It’s the small things, lately, he thinks, that he is starting to take notice of. Things like the sunrise over the lake view of his current house in Lynden. Or Pepper’s manicured fingernails when she taps the table at a meeting, a genuine thank you, Peter’s voice messages when he ‘drops a line’ here and there, Happy’s corny jokes, Rhodey’s text messages, the new receptionist shy and grateful smile whenever he comes by and responds to her good morning in the main office. Even that ridiculous hashtag that is trending lately like #TonyStarkCares.  
  
And now, apparently, jungle sunsets.  
  
Go figure.  
  
(Makes you wonder how much time you’ve wasted on things that do not really matter, doesn’t it?)

They end up in an office with an even better view. From where Tony stands, he can see the sea glittering and turning to a pool of amethyst as dusk starts to settle and the skies begin to darken. He suddenly feels _so tired_ right then and there and he doesn’t wait for T’challa to offer him to sit down. He takes the nearest chair and sinks into it very slowly, bringing up a hand to rub his temple.  
  
Tony is starting to wonder if travelling and coming out had been a good idea at all even if the proposal had been well worth it.  
  
“It has been a long journey. Do you have to fly out tonight?”

Tony tries to pretend that the concern he hears in T’challa’s voice is not real, that he is not really telling him that he looks like utter shit with death hovering just above his head (quite literally, much to Tony’s amusement); Tony knows exactly what he looks like. “Yes.” Tony does not elaborate why he has to fly back. There is no need to explain business bureaucracy to a King who manages one himself, one that is capable of rivaling Stark Industries, let alone project deadlines.  
  
Tony doesn’t even know when T’challa had taken a seat across from him. Tony does not remember even hearing him _move_.  
  
Tony finds himself wishing this would end fast al of a sudden and with each ticking second, the regret grows, _I am so goddamn tired; what the hell._  
  
“I’ll get straight to the point then. I believe that in order for us to move forward with _any_ ventures, you and I will need some transparency on a few things. Just so that we can avoid misunderstandings and inconveniences that may result in unnecessary conflicts.”  
  
Tony closes his eyes and sucks in a very slow deep breath.  
  
Of course.  
  
Of-fucking-course.  
  
Tony look at T’challa for a long time and right then and there, the regret solidifies.  
  
Coming to Wakanda had been a fucking mistake.

Even if the hydraulics program is worth it, this — whatever that is coming up _right now_ — is _not_ worth it.  
  
He does not want to talk about _anything_ else other than the project he had come for.“I can agree to that.” Tony says evenly, almost uninterestedly, waiting for the can of worms to be opened.  
  
“What is your current involvement with the amendments of the Accords?”  
  
_Whoop, there it fucking is._

“Nothing.” Tony says without hesitation and all the confidence he can muster; it feels a little like relief to finally admit that so openly to someone who isn’t close to him or someone who doesn’t work with him. T’challa does not look surprised and yet there is a pinch between the King’s brows and Tony takes that as an opportunity to explain things, for fucking goddamn transparency’s sake. “The current accords only take effect if I have the Iron Man suit on. At the moment, Iron Man is on a long and undetermined haitus. I’m running my company as a regular American citizen. I have been for the past four and some months and will continue to do so. Are you asking me if I have been having meetings with General Ross and his cronies? No. Do I have future plans in collaborating with the UN? Nope. But I’m stating the obvious here.”  
  
The question of, _what are you really asking_ , goes unspoken.  
  
“Why?”  
  
And that’s the proverbial elephant in the room.  
  
And with it, a thick cloud of bitterness so palpable that Tony can taste it at the back of his throat.  
  
Tony looks at T’challa and opens his mouth to give a biting remark, to tell him that he has no business asking why he doesn’t want to be involved with shit that only ends up in more shit, that no matter how much Tony _tries_ , no matter how much he gets knocked down, he still stands, King or no King, formalities and respect be damned. Tony wants to tell him that he is tired of wasting his time, his energy, his resources in investments that leaves him bloody and good for dead, that leaves him with closed doors, numerous quiet rooms and a desolated mansion. He wants to tell him that he has had it with waiting for the next person he puts his trust into to come stabbing him in the back when it suits them and also, once more, leaves him for dead. He wants to tell him that he’s had it with _being afraid_ , that he’s had it with being robbed of sleep and rest that he fucking well _deserves_ , of seeing cold blue eyes every time he so much as closes his own, to feel the pressure over his chest that may or may not have been meant for his neck. He wants to tell T’challa _fuck you, why would you care, why would anyone care at this point?_  
  
Tony wants to tell him that he’s tired of wasting his _life_ away when he’s apparently got nothing left.  
  
(You cannot hold onto sand. They’ll just keep slipping through your fingers no matter how tight you ball your fists up.)  
  
And that is when the fight leaves him, when the anger just melts away and lines on Tony’s face deepens, when he looks older than his own father when Howard had been his age, defeated and so truly _alone_. It might have been a trick of the light but Tony almost bristles when he thinks he sees sympathy cross T’challa’s face.

_Transparency, huh?_

“I’m _tired_.” Tony says instead and the words feel heavy, rolling off his tongue, and he’s almost amazed how two words can summarise _everything_ Tony has been feeling lately. Tony cannot help but huff a bit of a bitter laugh; he doesn’t normally wallow in self pity; it’s never been his style. But right then and there, even he cannot help but feel just a little bit sorry for himself.

Tony even wonders why he is telling _T’challa_ this when he can’t even tell the same to _Rhodey_ or Pepper or Happy.  
  
(Sometimes, it’s easier to talk to complete strangers; people who do not know the _real_ you.)  
  
With that realisation comes shame. Shame at the memory of Yinsen who had asked him with his last breath not to waste his life, had looked at him with _hope_ and before those pupils dilated and the last breath left dust and bloodied lips. Tony feels shame at the memory of Maria, who had believed that Tony would accomplish _wonders_. And funnily enough, Tony feels shame at the memory of Howard fucking Stark himself, because Tony has not – is not even half the man his father had _imagined_ or _believed_ him capable of being, the successful inventor, futurist and business tycoon. Tony finds himself looking at the now clear starry skies beyond the glass of the room they sit in.

“I’m just tired.” He says again, softer this time, and if it had been humanly possible, Tony hates himself just a _little_ bit more.

The silence stretches.

“Can I trust your silence, Mr. Stark?”

Tony does not look at the King but when he does T’challa seems to have made his own decision. Tony watches him stand from his seat, button his suit and gesture for Tony to follow him.

“I am afraid that I will take up more of your time. Please, follow me.”

Tony does not stand up immediately, does not move to rush up after the King who his crossing the room towards the door, where his assistants stand in waiting. Tony sucks in a deep breath to stand but stiffens when he feels his arm sting and his fingertips go numb for just a moment. He doesn’t realise he is gripping the armrest of his seat a little too tightly as he tries to remember to _breathe_ and _goddamnit, not here, not fucking here, hold on just a goddamn minute!_

“Mr. Stark?” T’challa looks from where he is standing by the doorway.

And Tony stands, giving him a smile that would make the covers of magazines worldwide.

“Good thing I like you, your Highness. I don’t bend my schedule for just about anyone, you know?”

Tony exhales softly when the King simply gives him a quirked brow and his entourage remains silent, simply observing him; Tony is starting to find that a little nerve wracking. He follows them down the hallway once more, casually popping two pills of his prescribed medication into his mouth and swallowing them dry; he is starting to feel a touch breathless, after all. If they notice, they say nothing.

They exit the building and Tony is escorted to a waiting vehicle. He doesn’t say much when he sits beside T’challa, while the rest of his entourage follow in a separate vehicle. Tony doesn’t even realise that the ride is a long one and normally, the silence would bother him. Normally, he would have been fiddling with his Starkpad. Normally, Tony would _work_ , brainstorm, create, innovate, _something_. But things are no longer normal and hasn’t been for a long time now. Instead, he absently listens to Friday narrate e-mails to him through his ear-piece. And when the slew of messages is done, Tony looks up at the reflection of the glass to see the King observing him.

“Your Highness, with all due respect, if where you’re taking me is not part of the Hydraulics program, I really do not want to be involved.”

Tony doesn’t even recognise the sound of his own voice. It was a little too _honest_. Tony doesn’t remember being this _honest_ since the age of four.

(When you’re a Stark, you learn to deflect and manipulate words at a young age. You tend to learn how to herd the sheep of society and use it to your advantage. You learn what defense truly is all about, how the truth is a matter of perspective and the lies are the walls that protect you – you’re good at this. You got this. Don’t be scared. You’re a _Stark_ for crying out loud!)

“I leave that for you to decide once you see what I am about to show you. I am taking a leap of faith on you, Mr. Stark. So are my people.” Tony turns to look at T’challa then and sees him for the young man he is, not the man who is forced to be both Warrior and King. Just a regular guy, who wants to do what is right. “You have changed since your battle in Siberia. Senates, people and governments would say you have changed for the best. Mostly, the people. I haven’t made my decision yet.”

Tony feels exposed then, when they lock gazes. And maybe he has been from the moment he disembarked from his private jet and he and T’challa shook hands in greeting. Looking at the King now, Tony wonders if circumstances had been different, if his father had not spent his entire life dedicated to Project Rebirth and SHIELD, if the Stark bloodline had not meant stripping one of their innocence from a young age, if they had all – if _he_ had made different decisions in life, Tony wonders if this is the kind of man he would have turned out to be. He wonders if even to his last dying breath, would he have still been able to take a leap of faith.

(Aren’t you already doing that just by sitting in this car?)

“I don’t have a lot of time left.” Tony blurts out and meets the confused and a touch startled gaze of the king. “You wanted transparency, right?”

“Mr. Stark –“

“And if it isn’t obvious already, you should know by now that despite my best efforts, I have always walked out of fights as not the quite victorious one. You kind of get used to it after a while, I can tell you that.” Tony flicks a glance at the window just as the car slows to a stop in front a barbed wire check point; by far, that is probably the biggest lie he has said to date What a load of bullshit. Tony can see a building that looks like a research facility just several meters ahead. “I am hoping though, this project would not be one of them. It’s very promising and I know it has the possibility of assisting with a drought crisis _anywhere._ Is this really _necessary_ , your Highness?”

There is hesitation and Tony catches it.

“I think it is the right thing to do.”

Tony laughs and feels so horribly bitter. “You sound just like Rogers.”

It is the first time in months the name has rolled off Tony’s tongue.

 _I can’t do this,_ Tony thinks and bites his tongue.

The vehicle is moving again and Tony tries not to let the panic in his chest get the better of him. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, he closes his eyes and breathes through his nose as he follows T’challa and his entourage through hallways and elevators and secured doors. He reaches up to mute his earpiece when Friday keeps warning him about how his blood pressure is steadily increasing. He does not need a constant verbal reminder, he can practically _feel_ the heated rush behind his eyelids and _hear_ it in his ears. He can feel the steadily mounting pain at the back of his skull and you really don’t need to do this, you can turn around and walk back to the car, you can call for a suit and put your foot down and let T’challaright now that you don’t really care for transparency and that you just want to get on with the program, you don’t need to see anything, you don’t care for anything, you’re wasting time, Tony, get out, just get out, get out, get the fuck out - !

Tony blinks at the misting glass of the cryogenic chamber.

Tony blinks at the face of the Winter Soldier, frozen and so deathly still.

(I can’t do this. I can’t. I don’t want this. I really don’t.)

From where he’s standing, Tony can see just how young Sargent James Buchanan Barnes truly is, like he had just stepped out of an old yellowing black and white photograph of the Howling Commandos that his father had in his study years ago. Tony remembers looking at that photo, and looking at Captain America with childish curiosity and marvel and remembers thinking how he wants to be brave just like them. To be as strong and tall and face all the monsters of the world, just like them.

(Just like Captain America because dad loved Captain America so much, right? Remember?)

Tony closes his eyes and feels the phantom impact of the reinforced concrete wall cracking on his back, can feel the pressure of Winter Soldier’s grip on him, holding him prisoner, pinning him right there and metal crumpling in his fingertips as he digs, and _digs_ into his chest to yank Tony’s arc reactor out, to _crush_ what little remains of Tony Stark’s heart in the palm of his cold – _oh my god -_ hands.

Tony opens his eyes and suddenly feels like he’s floating, vaguely aware of the warm and gripping hand on his shoulder. Tony has to force the black spots to clear from his vision as he looks at the King once more. Tony wants to tell him that he hadn’t been the only one who had taken a leap of faith to attend this meeting, to make any of these arrangements possible. Tony wants to tell him that he may have had some sort of suspicion with him having a hand in making sure that that the tracks of the rest of the Avengers had remained dead after Siberia, but harbouring the Winter Soldier – keeping him safe from himself and the public – had not been one of them. It had never crossed Tony’s mind _at all_ that T’challa would endanger his own _country_ by harbouring a fugitive like the Winter Soldier.

“Are they here?” Tony asks instead, voice sounding so far away, and he supposes he finds some comfort in the fact that T’challa looks resigned and dare Tony thinks, partially guilty when he nods.

Tony’s hands starts to shake.

“Yes.”

“Where?” Tony whispers and follows the gaze of the King when he turns to the team who had been accompanying him this _entire time_ , who had been standing right behind Tony and suddenly, Tony feels like the biggest fucking fool of them all. The hologram distorts just as three of them reach up to pull a device off the curve of their ear and right there, under the glow of the white halogen light, is Captain America, the Black Widow, The Falcon and Hawkeye.

(I should have seen this coming. I should have never come here. I should have stayed home.This is a mistake. This is not worth it. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not. It’s not. I should have stayed home. I should have stayed home. IshouldhavestayedhomeIshouldhavestayedhomeIshouldhavestayedfuckinghome—)

Tony has never felt _fear_ more palpable than he does at that very moment.

It comes _slamming_ into him.

He could not _breathe._

The override codes he had programmed into Friday kicks into action and her voice cuts through the haze Tony finds himself choking in, warning him of his status, of the alarmingly rising pressure, heart rate and --

Tony needs to get out of there and _fast_.

But he cannot look away from Steve’s face. Steve who is looking at him like he’s _scared_ too, Steve who takes a step forward but Tony takes a step back and suddenly, it feels like Tony is frozen into place and he can’t _move_. There is pleasure in seeing how startled Steve looks like at the reaction. It feels good to see how that seems to _hurt_ Steve, how it _upsets_ him. People only ever back away from something that they _fear_.

And Tony – after all that’s said and done – is _afraid_ of Captain Steve Rogers.

This is a _fact_.

“You weren’t the only one who took a leap of faith for this meeting, your Highness.” Tony says to T’challa but just maybe he’s saying it to Steve too. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Tony.” Steve says and Tony takes another step back and another before he turns and walks for the door.

“This transparent enough for you, your Highness?” Tony asks, and the bite is back, full force and Natasha can probably see right through it because it’s nothing more than a sorry attempt to cover up the pain that is flaring and raging and _beating_ against Tony’s chest.

“Yes.”

“So we’re done here? Yes? King or not, you understand the nature of a tight schedule~” Tony _smiles_ so widely that his eyes feels like they’re watering. “I was only here to discuss one particular program and I’ve done that. Scout’s honour. Keeping my mouth shut. Cross my heart and hope to _fucking_ die.” Tony pause, then remembers, right. Diplomacy and respect. “Your _highness._ ”

T’challa seems to have gotten the point and nods, doesn’t say another word as he turns to make his way to the door.

“That’s it, we’re just supposed to trust him, just like that –“

Tony does not grace Sam with even a glance at the sudden explosive words, he does not even turn to acknowledge how Natasha grabs Sam by the arm to silence him. To be fair, Tony doesn’t even know _how_ he’s still standing on his feet, what with how his head feels about as clear as bad jello. He does not even realise how he’s been holding his breath this entire time and perhaps that had been his mistake and the disappointment hits him like bullets through his chest; they still have that effect on him. Even now, months later, after being isolated, after being alone, after going through some sort of detox from all the things that had felt like family and finally belonging and being a part of _something_. They can still _hurt_ him just by _looking_ at him that way _and seriously,_ ** _fuck off_** _, Natasha, you do not get to look at me that way, and you do not have the right to judge me for not wanting to have a fucking conversation right now!_

(This is no one’s fault but yours.)

Tony turns and walks behind T’challa, one foot in front of the other, repeatrepeatrepeat, leaving the few things that somehow had begun to matter to him, the one person who had played a key role in making him the man he is today, he leaves it all behind him, voices muffled by the sharp ringing that is drowning the argument they are having. Tony barely registers Friday’s insistent warnings, that he needs _immediate medical attention right now_.

In fairness, Tony has to give himself credit for having the strength to even make it to the lobby. He has to give himself props for even managing to push the rotating doors and stepping into the crisp evening Wakandan air and in that moment when he looks up at the sky and suddenly feels _so small_ , when he thinks he’s at least away from gazes that had no right to show concern for _him,_ he finally swallows the fear and allow it to settle around him, to seep through his bones as he releases the clench of his fist. He has made it out of _that_ one, so he talks himself into making it past the car ride and the short flight of steps into his jet.

Except the breath he finally sucks in catches in his throat.

And it stays there.

_And oh god, no. Please no._

And if Tony had been afraid earlier, he is downright _terrified_ right _now._ Tony knows it is his ego that is afraid, that his ego would not let Steve fucking Rogers see him at his weakest, at his most vulnerable, because Steve fucking Rogers deserves nothing more from him. Not even a glimpse of the man losing what’s left of the few small pieces he had managed to salvage after Siberia. Tony would not give Steve Rogers the softest parts of him.  
  
Steve fucking Rogers would not have his vulnerability.

Tony thinks it’s just another anxiety attack, except his chest _hurts_ a little _too much_ this time and feels like the Winter Soldier’s metal fist is wrapped tightly around his heart, gripping it, gripping it, _crushing it_ , and in his fear, Tony’s hands come up to his chest, grasping the silk tie and shirt, crumpling it in his own fist to get that metal hand _off his chest_ and suddenly, all he sees is the burnt and cold grays of the abandoned military facility in Siberia, with the sharp taste of metal and blood pooling at the back of his throat and _oh my god, no, no, please no –_

Tony blinks.

And find himself staring at his reflection that is sliding down the tinted glass of the black vehicle parked before him. He finds himself catching the reflection of Steve rushing up behind him, Natasha, Sam and Clint hot on his heels. He catches the reflection of T’challa reaching out grab one of his arms to pull him up, except Tony feels the grit of the ground against his knees, and suddenly he doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

All he can see is Steve’s face above his, can feel the hands on his face and see the _panic_ lining the unusually young and handsome face. Tony tries to open his mouth, except his lungs feels like it is filled with fluid and what comes out instead is a gagged noise. Tony does not hear the noise around him, because the only thing palpable in his ears are the sounds of his lung struggling for breath and drowning at the same time. It feels like Afghanistan all over again, except there is no water and there are no hands holding him down.

It’s just Steve.

 

Steve who is _looking_ at him. 

 

Steve’s mouth is moving and saying his name.

Steve, his father’s fucking hero.

Steve, the man he had wanted, has wanted will always want to measure up to.

Steve who looks _afraid_.

(Captain Steve Rogers is supposed to be fearless; why the hell is he even looking at you like that? He shouldn't care about you! What the hell is wrong with him,  _now_?)

Tony gives up then, closing his eyes and feels a sigh leave his lips.

It’s probably the most gratifying feeling of calmness he has felt in a long time.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have discovered that I do NOT like writing emo!Tony and wimpy!Tony.
> 
> This is probably the most raw writing I've done in a long assed time; I'm still unsure about most of these things but better get it out because if I don't, I'll just keep re-writing and re-writing and I won't get nowhere. Comes with writing something unfamiliar I suppose.
> 
> But yeah, anyway. Tony is... trying to move on. I think. I hope.


	3. Decide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you so much for all your comments and support. It keeps a dweeb like me going. 
> 
> This chapter is massive. I am also my own beta, I may have missed some typos/grammar here and there. APOLOGIES IN ADVANCED!
> 
> Please don't kill me D:

“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”  
Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Arrogance is like poison.

Natasha knows this like the back of her hand. She does not feel shame very often, but when she does, the bitter aftertaste reminds her of dried blood at the back of her throat, cakey and dry, the kind that sticks to roof of your mouth, absolutely _disgusting_. And they, in all their righteous glory, have reached the pinnacle of arrogance. Their decision and assumptions disappoint Natasha.

But most of all, she is disappointed in herself.

It isn’t like they have not been following the news. If anything, it is Natasha who had arrived in Wakanda to confirm the news herself, establishing the facts Pepper had delivered during the press conference. She backs it up with facts, had argued the small feeling in her gut that this time, Tony isn’t playing games. This time, he really is just… _working_.

But history, Natasha knows, has a penchant to repeat itself.

They had argued about this. Argued about its legitimacy.

They had not forgotten what had happened with Ultron.

They had not forgotten the decisions that had lead to the chaos in Leipzig.

They had not forgotten the raft.

Nor had they forgotten the little things that had fallen through the cracks from the moment the Avengers had first formed to the present day.

Maybe Sam had been biased with his opinion. Maybe Steve had been biased with his own beliefs. Maybe Wanda had been knee deep in her resentment and guilt, no matter what she claims to say now. Maybe Clint had been too angry. Maybe Scott had not known better. And maybe T’challa himself had made a mistake in his judgment.

(You are all too bitter and waiting to leap at the opportunity to point fingers at your exile, like a bunch of caged animals, bound by the angry eyes of the world with nothing else to do but hide.)

But they had forgotten – no, _she_ had forgotten that despite the mistakes Tony Stark has made, he has more than made up for it in effort and time, in innovation and ideas and if the years with him has taught Natasha _anything_ , Tony Stark does not know when to _give up_. Natasha has known, has _seen_ , the makings of a great futurist, someone with the ability and intelligence to truly bring the world forward if only Tony would have let go of his ego, his narcissism, his arrogance – the list had been endless.

Natasha cannot fault the others.

But she faults herself for succumbing to human nature, where one allows the high of emotions to get the best of themselves, when you forget to cut someone some slack despite you observing what has taken place in the past four months, despite you standing there with blonde hair and green eyes amidst the sea of reporters, acting like someone else, listening to someone who you hope can still be a friend deliver information to the public. You, like the rest of the fucking world and those headlines starved reporters, had forgotten that Tony is _not_ heartless, that despite the intelligence, the excessive philanthropy, the partying, the sashaying, the fucking _sass and_  tendencies to show off, you have so forgotten that he is just a _man_. And here you are, sitting outside a sterile waiting room, with the faint beeps of the monitors and machines trying to keep that _man’s_ condition _stable_ , cowering like a bunch of wet dogs.

You and your sudden development for _sheep mentality_.

(Shame on you, Romanov. You should have known _better_.)

Natasha looks up when Steve’s shoes becomes visible in her peripheral vision. She takes the offered paper cup of steaming local tea and mumbles a thanks. She does not drink it for a while, does not say anything even as Steve takes the seat across from her. This is how it has been for the past forty eight hours since Tony has come out of emergency surgery. Sometimes it is Clint, Natasha and Steve waiting patiently. Sometimes during the afternoons, it is Wanda and Steve. That evening, for example, just before Natasha comes to check in with the hopes that there is _some_ improvement, she had misses Sam leaving.

They do not speak.

They do not engage in the discussion of their errors nor Tony’s.

They just sit there mulling in their own thoughts, drinking coffee and tea, and not daring reiterate words they had so carelessly flung out, like dust in the wind.

It is late when T’challa joins them, looking a little haggard, suit jacket missing and tie knotted loosely around his neck from where he must have tugged it earlier.

It Natasha who breaks the silence.

“Your highness.” She says softly, flicking a gaze at Steve who looks up at the tired King with something that looks too much like desperation.

T’challa does not speak immediately but sits down on the space beside Natasha and for a long moment, stares at the shoelaces of his dress shoes. When he does speak, his voice sounds thick with the unspoken regret of his poorly executed decision.

“My team tells me that it will take a _divine_ miracle for him _survive_ this.”

Natasha watches the colour _completely_ drain from Steve’s face. She does not need a mirror to know that her own face does the same.

“My team has done the most that they can, given what little they had to work with. Mr. Stark has not been… paying much attention to himself. Prognosis at this point is not clear. We can only be patient.”

Natasha translate that as ‘not positive’.

“Is it possible to determine how long this may have been going on? With tests and …” Steve trails off like he’s walking on eggshells, like he’s not sure if he can handle the truth or not.

Natasha doesn’t blame him.

(You remember months ago, the way Tony casually talks about the numbing in his arm, how carefree and jesting the words had sounded, sarcastic and dry. Just the way he must have wanted it to sound like. Nothing serious here, nothing to see here, just me and my heart failing, yup, it’s all good, carry on. You are forced to admit that you’ve been duped.)

T’challa’s gaze is locked with Steve’s; he does not spare Natasha glance when he says, “A long while.”

Steve swears so bitterly that the whispered syllables sounds so sharp that is is as if the plaster walls around them are cracking.

The silence that passes them after that is stiff and for a moment the only thing that fills the space between them is the soft footfalls of nurses and doctors moving around the private floor and the forced calm breathing Steve is trying to maintain.

Natasha stews in her temper, as cold and icy as the alps, knuckles going white as she clenches and unclenches her fist, staring at spot on the ground.

This is not what any of them had expected.

This is not something any of them had been prepped to deal with.

“My team will do what they can.” T’challa says, jaw tight as he stands from his seat and moves to walk towards the nurses’ station. He stops however, with his back to Natasha and Steve and Natasha understands then, that it is regret that makes the young king pause. “I have learned one thing from this. And it is that I _must_ learn to listen _better._ I do not regret agreeing to assist you in uniting with your former teammate, nor do I regret offering Mr. Stark a change to collaborate in a project. Assuming he’s even interested in that.”

“T’challa…” Natasha is cut off.

“I regret _not_ listening to him. And most of all, I regret not heeding _my_ own instincts. Maybe, Mr. Stark really just wants to ‘do business’. Maybe he hasn’t been bought, or he’s not being _threatened_ by _General Ross._ Maybe there is no hidden agenda.” T’challa’s eyes are hard like black diamonds when he looks at Steve at that, and Steve, is graceful enough to look away, jaw grinding. “I have made a poor decision and if his days are shortened further because of this, because of my facilitation, then his blood is on my hands too.”

The unspoken words hang between the three of them: _if Tony dies, his blood is in all of your hands._

“If you have any faith, Miss Romanov, Captain Rogers, now is the time to _pray_.”

T’challa walks away and the silence is filled with soft words exchanged with the doctors in Wakandan whispers.

“We didn’t know.” Steve says.

Natasha knows it’s a sordid attempt at an excuse to justify what has been done.

(Sheep mentality.)

“But he’s right.” Natasha points out.

Steve looks up at her then and Natasha thinks this is a face she will commit to memory, if only because it is a face that she must never forget. It will remind her how guilt can _destroy_ a person.

“He is…”

__

Steve goes ‘home’ (because it can’t be home, it will never be home) that night with what feels like an insistent migraine. He goes ‘home’ because T’challa tells him to, because the staff asks him to, because Natasha threatens him to. There is nothing he can do but wait, truly a man out of time because when he sits there surrounded by the sterile walls, listening to the continuous non-faltering beeps of the machines beyond the glass, it feels like the world is moving too fast for him to process.

It’s the story of his life, apparently.

The world moving too fast.

He does not stay away from Tony for too long, though.

He returns to his seat outside of Tony’s room after a pitiful attempt at sleep the next morning and is surprised to find the curtains drawn and the staff gathered by the door speaking in a language that despite the melodic tones, bellies something far more serious.

“Is everything okay?” He asks.

The doctors – or rather the head of cardiology – that Steve recognises pats a nurse on the shoulder to dismiss her gently and gives Steve his full attention. “Yes, yes, nothing to be alarmed about…” He says, with a bit of a sigh and confusion drawing his thinning brows together. “I cannot say more at this time. His Highness must be present if I am to discuss Mr. Stark’s request –“

Steve’s heart _leaps_ at that. “Wait – Tony is _awake_?”

“Yes, and –“ The doctor is cut off when a nurse from the nurse’s station waves at him frantically and he excuses himself by running down the hall and practically leaning over the counter, pressing the telephone to his ear.

Steve finds himself staring at the door. He can see nothing but a very, _very_ faint outline and shadow of what he knows is Tony’s figure; narrower, older more tired, with very visible lines on what still remains a handsome face, despite the dark tinge to his lips and under his eyes. He has spent the past forty eight hours watching Tony through the glass that every line of Tony’s figure is already ingrained in his memory. And with each ticking second, his heart bangs against his rib cage like drums in a war march.

Steve had hoped that he would avoid fuck ups in this lifetime.

After watching Bucky fall into the white and freezing abyss all those years ago and waking up almost a century later, he had sworn that he would never let someone close to him die like that. No one that matters to him will die _alone_. And he would die trying to make sure that the silent vow he had made to himself would come true.

(Peggy had died alone, surrounded by pockets of inky black forgotten memories; you should have been there, old boy.)

The irony of it, is that Bucky had survived.

A man out of time would always gravitate towards the past, and when you’re so immersed in the past, you forget the present and the future. And while you, Steve Rogers, had kept in mind what problems the accords may bring in the future, you had been hilariously blind to the present.

(People forget that under the cowl, the stars and stripes, and behind the shield, is only a _man._ Not perfect and capable of making bad decisions, too.)

The vacuum-like silence of his raging thoughts is broken all of a sudden and Steve looks up to see the doctor he had been speaking to earlier walk past him with a phone and watch that Steve immediately recognizes as the ones Tony had in his hand during the meeting with T’challa and his development team nights ago. Steve watches as the doctor steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Maybe his super soldier hearing is a blessing in disguise after all, because he can hear the doctor explain what has been done to Tony’s heart, words that Steve does not understand because he is not a medical professional. But Dr. Akara is patient and gives examples to Tony, tells him that it is a Band-Aid solution, that it’s not much. He tells Tony that the cancer has spread and that it is difficult to fight it off now. Dr. Akara tells him how they have tried to remove what they can, and proceeds to explain procedures that only makes the bile rise up Steve’s throat.But Steve doesn’t move from his seat.

And his hearing tells him that neither is Tony from where he is on the bed, perfectly still, probably looking at Dr. Akara like he’s the world’s biggest mystery.

“Thank you, doctor. For your efforts. I’ll be fine. When do you think I can travel?”

There is a pause and Dr. Akara informs him that patients who has undergone surgery the way Tony has requires longer observation and that travel back to the United States is something Tony can only consider _many_ weeks from now. An eight hour surgery is not something to be taken lightly.

“All right then. Is that all you need to tell me, doctor?” Tony asks, still managing to sound so goddamn uncaring even when his voice sounds like sandpaper on a rough surface.

“For the time being.”

“Great, well then, off you go trying to save more lives worth more than mine. I have to work and I’m behind my deadlines. Don’t worry, don’t worry — don’t look at me like that. I won’t move from this bed. I will just be talking and my phone will do most of the work. I’m a little sore anyway, so everything will be hands-free, I promise.”

Steve almost gets up then, almost slaps his hands against his knees because goddamnit, _goddamnit Tony_. Instead, Steve remains glued to his seat as the doctor comes out, closes the door and informs Steve that it’s best to leave the patient undisturbed and he should not be _stressed._ Steve understands when he’s being told to stay away, so he stays there, in the little uncomfortable chair as one hour ticks by, then two, and three, then he stops counting, quietly listening to Tony really just _work_.

He listens to Tony converse with Friday, asking her to adjust schematics, narrating alpha numerals that is beyond Steve’s understanding, asking her to render, and repeat and try again, and take this out, calculate cost, forecast demand and supply, how much raw material is required if the scale of the current model is tripled — and it hits Steve that despite what has happened, despite T’challa pretty much pushing Tony into a corner (no thanks to him), Tony is still willing to make this project work.

Steve feels _sick_ as stands abruptly, startling some of the staff and he starts to pace up and down the hall, shaking his hands a few times, breath coming out fast like it had used to, a memory ago when he would battle asthma.

(Maybe out of the two of you, the one who has been robbed of all faith, is _you_.)

Steve makes a decision then, _I need to talk to him_ , and moves towards the door but before he can push the door open, he hesitates and that is when he finally figures just _what_ Tony is doing. He is actually _pitching_ the idea he had come all the way to Wakanda for and trying to get the wheels rolling.

Right there, on his bed, hooked to wires and tubes and sounding like utter shit, in pain with endoscopy holes and bandages and he’s still _pitching_.

Steve thinks it beyond incredible.

“So what do you think, Pepper? First thing tomorrow morning, which is my evening here, think you can stand in front a bunch of old farts and talk about this? Friday can handle all the technical stuff and also play interpreter.”

“I still don’t understand why this can’t wait till you’re back.”

“Time is of the essence, Pepper my dear. We must make a quick march forward with this!”

“But —“

“T’challa needs an answer, asap. Or, no, that’s not fair, that’s a lie, but I want to give T’challa an answer right away. The greener the light, the less back and forth I have to do with our young King. He’s a _King_ , my god, Pepper, his _palace —“_

“I’ll do it tomorrow, okay?“

“You’re the best.”

And Steve hears it, the sudden weight of those words, the vulnerability and _honesty_ in that small phrase.

“Tony —“

“Do you have any regrets meeting me, Pepper?” Steve’s knuckles are white against the door knob. “I’m not even talking about the break up, just — you know, do you have any regrets having me in your life, whatever shape and form…”

There is a very short pause, almost a heartbeat and when Pepper answers, Steve realises that he is holding his breath. “Not a single one, Tony.”

There is a hitch in Tony’s breath, it  _almost_ trembles, if one knows how to listen. And Steve, without realising it, recognises the change in tenor.

“You really are the best, Pepper. Thank you, for everything you have done, for everything that you are still doing, and for everything that you will do. I truly am lucky to have you. I can sleep well knowing that if something happens to me, you’ll take care of everything.”

The laugh Pepper gives is shaky, almost unsure. It’s a little raw around the edges. “Oh Tony, you romantic. I’m the one who is lucky. But really Tony, are you all right? It’s not even noon where you are, Was there a party last night that you may have enjoyed too much?”

And just like that, like Tony had not just bared his heart and soul, his voice shifts and the syllables come out with a dramatic flare. “Oh my god, Pepper, you will not believe  _Wakandan wine —“_

By the time the call ends, Steve finds his resolve diminished and he steps away from the door and returns to his chair. He contents himself with listening to Friday and Tony read and respond to e-mails and it is when Friday brings up a reminder about a concert that Tony’s mood suddenly shifts and he’s swearing like a sailor. Swearing and _swearing_ and his hand bangs against the railing of the bed a few times out of frustration.

Tony is _angry._

And then there is sudden silence.

Steve counts five seconds and is about to get up and call the nurses when Tony makes a call and when Rhodey asks him where he is, Tony informs him that he’s in Wakanda.

“Okay, what? Why?” Rhodey sounds so confused, like he had not expected the visit let alone the project proposal to even come from T’challa. When Tony launches into an explanation and concludes it, Rhodey sounds more convinced. “Oh, okay. Well, it sounds pretty amazing. I haven’t heard you this excited since MIT and you finally completed Dummy’s coding.”

Tony _laughs_ and the sound of it is _surreal_ to Steve’s ears because he has not heard Tony laugh like _that._ No boundaries, no walls, no jaded defence mechanism making it seem not so personal – it’s infectious and almost _dorky_. But just as soon as Rhodey joins in on the laughter, Tony starts to cough and it is wet and sticky, _diseased_ and harsh, the kind that shakes you from within and leaves your back and ribs hurting.

“Tony — Tony, are you _okay_? That doesn’t sound so good. Seriously, dude — Tony!”

Tony is _wheezing_ but he croaks out a mute and Rhodey is pissed off, because Steve does not have to strain too hard to _hear_  the death threats he’s throwing, like a big brother forcing a younger sibling to cough out the shit or else.

“Well, it’s good to know you care if I’m dying or not.” Tony _jokes_ breathlessly _,_ when the coughing finally stops.

“That is not fucking funny, Tony. What the hell - what is _going on_? You need to get your ass back home _right now_.” Rhodey sounds _angry_. _Frustrated_.

“Rhodey…” Rhodey goes quiet. “I don’t think I can make it to that concert, buddy.” This time, there is no hiding the shake in Tony’s voice. “I’m gonna be held up hear for a while, maybe a little longer than I expected. Which sucks because I was really looking forward to that concert. It sucks that I cannot make this goddamn _commitment_ to attend something because circumstances — “ Tony sucks in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Tony, forget the concert —“

“No, Rhodey, I’m — I —“ There is a soft thump; Steve guesses it’s Tony’s fist hitting the railing again. “I’m sorry I’m letting you down, buddy. Also I’ve got this _terrible_ cold —“

“Are you drunk?”

“Why is everyone asking me that!”

“Because, Tony, you say stupid ass emotional shit when you’re fucking drunk _and_ tipsy. Listen, don’t be sorry. _It’s okay_ , you do what you gotta do. Forget the concert, we’ll catch the next one. Wrap up your meetings and all your business and projects, then you come on back home. We can talk about your emotional tween state over a very a large cheeseburger.”

“Yeah.” Tony sounds _breathless_. “Yeah, that sounds like a date.”

“All right. You take care of yourself, Tony. And call me when you’re flying in for goodness sakes! And get something for that cough. I’m _serious_. I’m gonna drag you to the hospital myself if you show up and that doesn’t let up.”

“Yeah.” Tony _chokes_. “I will.”

Something in the room breaks, and then another and Steve sits there, frozen in his seat as he listens to Tony swear, and _swear_ , and then there is muffled screams, like the familiar sound of drowning one’s frustration and anger against a pillow. Steve has been staring at his hands the entire time, feeling heat gather in his eyes and maybe, they fall too, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _care_.

“Friday? Remember that thing we talked about? Do it.”

“Yes, sir.” There is a pause. “Estimated time of arrival, six hours, sir.”

Steve bolts to his feet then, like a spring.

Only to be stopped by two firm hands.

T’challa is shaking his head and pats his shoulder twice, easily stopping him from going to see his ‘friend’, his goddamn ‘friend’ who is goddamn _alone_ , _because I left him alone when I promised I would never do that anymore. Because like me, he’s made bad choices too, we both have, and we’re both to blame – but it doesn’t matter, I promised, goddamnit, I promised and he’s dying because I couldn’t trust him enough and I know he’s going to do something stupid that might just kill himself and I need to talk to him I need to tell him –_

The door clicks shut, lock turning and Steve is left standing there, leaning his back against the door and crossing his arms, head dipped. Tony acts like he hadn’t been going through a breakdown just _minutes_ ago. And that, in and of itself, is Tony Stark. The man who is a master of hiding his biggest fears and insecurities behind pomp and flare, and backed with an ingenuity that not a lot – not even T’challa – can keep up with. This here, is Tony Stark, a pro in negotiation, born to fill in shoes of a giant business tycoon,because from a young age, he had to learn to wade through _so much bullshit_. He had to have the makings of a politician, both to the public and behind closed doors. Tony had to grow up making sure that he had two personas in each hand.

(But when you really think about it Steve, if you really sit and use your brains, if you had _considered_ what he had proposed to you before shit hit the fan, he had been on your side. He would have been able to keep _both_ hands on the wheel, and not just one. He would have made sure that it _worked_. You know that he would have taken the seat as Director if he _had to_. You knew this then and you know it now. And look at what you’ve _done_.)

“So!” Tony says, with a clap of his hands, voice as clear and straight as he can manage after being out like the dead for two days and an eight hour surgery. He’s not even giving T’challa a chance to speak. “No, your highness, you’re going to sit there and listen to what I have got to say _first_. Now that you’ve got _real facts_ on you that my clock _really_ is ticking – because heaven all mighty _forbid_ anyone even listens to me when _I am_ being _honest_ for a _change_ – we really do not have a lot of time and as you can see, I’m kind of incapacitated. By tonight, I will receive an answer from my CEO if we’re go-green or not. And once we do, she will have my development team liaise with yours. By the way, I’ve figured out that glitch you have with the overheating problem. I’ve already sent the details to your team.” There is a pause. “ _What now?_ ”

“You still want to do this.”

“I’ve had parts of my liver and lungs removed and stints placed in more than two valves of my heart. I have the burden of keeping my mouth _shut_ with a global secret because _your people_ do not deserve the politics or the _war_ that can come to your doorstep and you’re sitting there and _telling me the obvious_ – tell me something, do you just want me to drop dead _right now_? Because I can do that. You know what, I expected _this stunt_ from _them_ but not from _you_. You’re a _king_. You have a _country_ to run, stop thinking with your goddamn heart for a fucking second here and use that goddamn head I _know_ you have. The amount of good _this project_ is capable of _doing_ for people trumps everything, including _Iron Man_ _and_ the _Avengers_. You know that! Or else, why the **_fuck_ ** would you have called _me_? And if that was not clear enough for you,” Something shatters, a glass perhaps. ”Y _es, I still want to_ ** _fucking_** _do this_!”

Steve presses the heel of his palms against his eyes, trying to push the heat away, feeling the moisture on the his skin.

“Jesus Christ, T’challa.”

Tony sounds _tired._ So, _so_ very tired.

“You are right.” T’challa says, voice soft. “I played a role in facilitating this meeting and words of apology will never –“

“Don’t. Just please, _don’t_. I do not have the _emotional capacity_ right now _to deal_ with _your_ guilt. Nor do I have the time and quite frankly, at this point, I don’t give a _rat’s ass_ **_why_** you did it. You want to make it up to me? You make sure this deal pulls through. You _promise_ me that it _will work_. And you goddamn make sure that _none of them_ gets in this room.” There is a sharp intake of breath, “because _I can’t_. Okay? I really, _really_ , **_can’t_.** _”_

Steve pushes away from the door then, _defeated_. He looks up to find Wanda and Natasha present, a bouquet of vibrant flowers in Wanda’s arms.

“I promise you.”

“Out of curiosity, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most difficult, how hard was it to admit that you _fucked up_?”

“Very hard.”

“Thought so. Pepper would have never left me if I was _this_ honest and _candid_ with things to begin with, but well, death puts a perspective on things, I suppose. Anyway, so I was doing some study with Wakanda’s weather patterns and I was wondering if you would be interested in this thing I’ve been working on. Solar energy is the second best thing in…”

Steve leads them away from the room, Tony’s voice fading from his ears as he walks away from him, because at this point, if Tony sees any of them it may truly just _kill him_.

(The least you can do now, is respect a dying man’s wishes. Maybe, you don’t deserve to express your right to freedom of speech.)

__

The villa that they stay in is private and secluded, nondescript and is a fifteen minute walk away from the nearest bus and taxi stand. In this time of the year, Wakanda’s days are dry and hot and her nights a touch humid and breezy. They are surrounded by green and at night, the quiet yard surrounding the villa is kept company by the nocturnal wildlife. They have had many nights to appreciate their surroundings, but that evening, like the past several ones, their surroundings is lost to them.

From where Steve sits, he can see the bouquet of flowers Wanda had bought earlier, beyond the glass of the living room window, lying forgotten on the table. Wanda had purchased it at the local market to bring colour to Tony’s room, an olive branch of sorts, and yet there it lies, unwanted, bright and just as loud and clear as Tony’s words of absolute rejection.

They have not spoken a word since Steve had explained what he had eavesdropped on earlier. Even Clint’s usual dry remarks is absent.

(It’s like sitting together after a funeral service; isn’t that ironic?)

He had not be able to look at Wanda since. She had not moved from her spot on the lounge seat save to reach up and dab at her eyes every now and then.

Steve himself is unable to sit still, his heel tapping continuously against the ground. He cannot shake off what Tony had said. Most of all, something in his gut is telling him that Tony is about to really disregard all medical advice. Steve knows that it isn’t his place, that he is the last person to even say anything that relates to Tony’s well being, but there is _something_  in Steve's gut that is insistently clawing up to his chest.

(Because past all the fights, past all the disagreements, Tony means something to you. You care for him, even if he doesn’t necessarily return the sentiment.)

Steve looks at the time on his watch.

“I’m going back,” Steve says, and gets up from his seat to head to towards the main gate.

“Where?” Natasha is frowning.

And there Steve pauses to look at his team, a shadow of their former glory, because look at them, cowering behind concrete walls and in the shadows of a jungle. Just look at them.

Steve takes another look at the time on his watch and shakes his head.

“Something’s bothering me.” Steve says and looks at grass like he’s trying to make a final decision and make his legs move from where they suddenly stick to the ground. “Something he said, when he was talking, and it’s – I _know_ Tony. He – When he’s desperate, he doesn’t make the best decisions especially when it concerns himself. It’s probably nothing but, I gotta go see him.”

There is a pause.

“Steve, if Tony sees you _now_ , if he sees _any_ of us now, it may just – “

“I know!” Steve _snaps_. “Goddamnit, Nat, _I know_. But what, we’re supposed to just stand here and _leave him alone_?”

“We already did.”

“And _that is my fault_.” Steve’s voice is loud, like a crack of lightning and they all look startled.

“Hey, come on man, we can all agree at this point that we all made our own decisions. Maybe Stark is to blame for a lot of things, but –“

Steve cuts Sam off, “No, Sam. This one really is on me. He offered to help when we were Germany. He offered to _fight_ for a lighter sentence for Bucky and you – no, listen – you all know he would have kept his word! I made the wrong call. And in Siberia, he –“ Steve sucks in a breath and stops, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“What about Siberia?” Sam asks suddenly, cocking an eyebrow, standing from his chair too.

“He came to _help_. And then…” Steve closes his eyes, vividly remembering the vibration of his shield against his fingers when he had slammed it down against the arc reactor. “And then Zemo played us. And then he – he was trying to kill Bucky because he found out that it was Bucky who had killed his parents. He _saw_ it.” Steve does not look up to see the confused melting into shock expressions of the team, save for Natasha.

“Jesus, Steve –“ Sam swears right after that, bring up both his hands against his temples and pushing against the short cut of his hair.

Natasha doesn’t even respond and simply walks across the yard towards the gate.

“This conversation is _far_ from over. You owe us one hell of an explanation Cap, because like fuck if I’m going to just sit here and not know what the _hell_ was going on that you _and_ Stark were _not telling the rest of the fucking team_.” Clint is furious but gets on his feet and is already moving towards the gate as well.

Steve follows quickly and so does everyone else.

The short drive is thick with silence and it is only broken when they exit the car. They are in the middle of crossing the short distance between the parking lot and main entrance of the hospital when a black SUV suddenly cuts in to the road leading to the entrance, tires _screeching_ and comes to a grinding halt. When T’challa comes out, slamming the door and furiously dialling numbers on his phone, Steve’s heart stops and he breaks into a run.

They all do.

No words can explain the chaos that they step into once they reach the private ICU floor.

They are greeted with panicked nurses and doctors and when T’challa _asks_ in a tone that would strike _fear_ into a lesser man, they say the same thing:

"He _left_. Flew away. Took off everything and just _left_. Through the window.”

Steve doesn’t hear anything else after that, not the shouts, not the arguments, not Clint asking where the nurses were and why they had not been keeping an eye on Tony he’s fucking Tony Stark. Not Natasha _arguing_ with Sam at how starting a man hunt may just put Wakanda itself _in danger,_ not Scott tugging Wanda aside and wrapping arms around her in a tight hug.

Steve hears nothing.

He sees nothing.

He finds himself standing in the middle of Tony’s room, staring at the crumpled sheets and discarded tubes and wires, the heart monitor alarm ringing insistently and the window thrown wide open. Steve takes out the phone from his pocket and dials Tony’s direct number, the one they had all used back then, and waits, and waits.

“Tony here, you know what to do.”

The beep sounds off.

“Tony, Tony – Friday, I know you’ll get this, I know you’ll be screening this, there’s something I need to say…”

\--

Tony thinks he is dreaming.

Because he is lying on his back, on a dusty woollen rug by the fireplace that hasn’t been lit in almost two decades, alone and tired, the darkness an envelope around him, except for the glow of one of the Iron Legions, standing right there, by the fireplace, like some sort of sentinel. From where he lies on his back, he can see the plastic covered chandelier hanging above his head, and from the corner of his eyes, he can see photo frames of days that he hadn’t thought of in a very, _very_ long time,

He knows this place. He knows that it had been once filled with happier days. When he had been but four feet in height; days where Christmases, Thanksgivings, New Years had been warm and filled with songs being sung while slim fingers danced over a grand piano. Where the syllables of his name had reverberated the halls in a thick English accent and the sounds of polished shoes against the marble flows had echoed along with the squeaks of a child’s sneakers. He remembers the sound of clapping from the game of clap and hide. He remembers the smell of cookies and the sound of his tricycle bumping against doors and corners and walls.

Tony blinks slowly and turns to look at his hand where an empty pistol-like syringe lies discarded. He does not remember what has happened in the past few hours. He’s having difficulty in focusing.

_Why am I here? What am I doing here?_

“Friday? What —“

“High Voltage Protocol, Sir.”

“ _What —“_

It hits Tony like a fast moving train and suddenly, it is like he is being jolted out of a nightmare. Except he actually physically jolts form where he is lying on the floor and there is fire, _oh my god_ , there is so much _fire_ in his chest and he’s _screaming_ and _screamingscreamingscreaming —_

Friday’s voice echoes somewhere, and a part of him knows he should not worry. He had designed that particular protocol with the name as a jabbing joke at his attempt to be kept alive, the title shamelessly stolen from ACDC, like a defibrillator’s shock to the heart. He is in the house he remembers growing up in before he had moved into boarding school; he remembers picking the abandoned home because it is the last place _anyone_ would even _think_ to look. He remembers ensuring radio silence and keeping Friday in charge of throwing people who would try to track him off for a loop. He remembers the automated 5 word text message to Pepper, Rhodey and Vision that is to be sent out once the protocol is active: _I’ll be okay, trust me._ He remembers why number 23 from the Iron Legion is with him because he had programmed it to assist him with precisely injecting Extremis.

He vaguely remembers the flight across the atlantic, recalls the flight time being cut in half because of the overdrive technology he had furiously worked on months ago and implemented into the suit. The suit that is probably damaged from the force he had to put it through because time had been the key.

(Survival was a gamble and you took it. It’s a miracle you even made it to the house in the first place.)

He remembers it all now, in the haze of the pain that makes his eyes water and his body turn to the side and his throat goes _raw_ until he’s coughing up blood, _oh my god_ , there is so much blood, soaking and seeping _right into the carpet_ and _oh god, mom would get mad_ , and _shit, Jarvis is going to have a field day_.

And Tony thinks, for a moment, that he might just die like this. That it just may not work and he will end up like the subjects that had failed during Killian and Maya’s attempt at developing the serum. He watches the blood spread, watches it spill like watery jell-o, all the while knowing, subconsciously, _that this is okay, it is going as planned, don’t be scared, calm down, deep breaths even if it hurts, you are expelling genetic code, this is it kicking in, it’s Extremis telling your brain that everything about you is fucked up, it’s not blood, it’s not, it’s not, don’t look at it, close your eyes, just close it, just —_

Tony scrunches his eyes shut and _wretches_ once more, before falling face first into the warm and wet mess on the floor.

Tony barely feels the squelch as the pain starts to ebb away. Or maybe it is just him finally giving up.

Tony doesn’t know.

But for a long time, he _dreams_.

He dreams of a memory that he had thought he had long forgotten.

He is five years old and it’s the night of Boxing Day and he is sitting in the family room, in his star and stripes onesie, a stuffed bear cradled under one arm. There is a plate of cookies beside the sea of cushions on the floor and on the television, Pinocchio is playing. Tony sits there, swaying form side to side from where he sits, while Maria gently plays with the curls on his head. Tony sings along with all the songs, loud and off beat, high pitched with some of the words lisped and mispronounced. But he sings and _sings_ , and sometimes Maria joins him.

When the movie ends, Tony is on his feet and tugging at the sleeve of Maria’s robe.

“Mom, can I watch it again? Please?”

“It’s past your bed time. And we agreed that we were only going to watch it once today.” Maria is gentle but there is a mock frown on her beautiful face.

“But Pinocchio is my favourite!"

“I know that. You didn’t even eat the cookies Jarvis specially baked for you. See? You barely touched it.”

Tony grabs two cookies and proceeds to stuff it into his face, getting crumbs all over his front and face, and some even land in his hair. Maria is gently reprimanding him, but he does not stop until he eats enough to not hurt Jarvis’ feelings. He takes a swig of milk and then turns to look at Maria, the mop of curls on his head bobbing with the sudden motion, a milk moustache over his lip.

“I ate the cookies! Can I watch Pinocchio now? Please?”

“Tomorrow.”

“But mom —“

“I’ll read you Pinocchio instead. Come, off we go to get your teeth brushed and into bed. Don’t keep me waiting or else I won’t read to you.”

Tony is scrambling up from the cushions and running down the halls in seconds, up the stairs and pushing doors, the sounds of his hurried motions echoing in the quiet and warmly lit Stark estate. He squeezes a blob of toothpaste on his toothbrush because mom will check his teeth later and he does not want to disappoint mom. Mom is too pretty and too nice to be upset. So Tony brushes furiously, holding on to the side of the sink as he stands on his tiptoes over the stool to check his teeth. In minutes, he’s running back to his room, stuffed bear bobbing in the air behind him as he _zooms_ into bed, throwing himself over where Maria catches him, and envelopes him in a warm embrace.

(Mom’s hugs are the best.)

Tony pulls the slightly wrinkled Pinocchio story book from the side table and settles into the pillows as Maria tugs the blankets over him, pulling him close and propping the book open.

They sit there until the moon becomes visible in the night sky and the clouds disappear, Maria’s soft voice filling the space around them.

Tony’s eyes are heavy.

“Mom? Am I a real boy?” Tony asks.

“Let’s see? I don’t see any strings on you, so yes. Yes, you are a real boy.” Maria chuckles.

“Dad thinks so too?”

Tony looks up to watch Maria’s face do that thing again, that strange look everytime Tony asks about Howard who is gone again, longer this time.

“He does.”

“Does he love Captain America more than me?”

“No my darling. But.” Maria wraps her arms tight around Tony then and this close, Tony can smell her perfume, sweet and gentle, and it reminds him of a endless field of flowers. “He loves Captain America too. Do you remember when Geppetto had gone out looking for Pinocchio? That’s what your father is doing now. He is looking for Captain America. Because he is important to your father.”

“But what if dad gets swallowed by a whale!”

“Ahh, but your father is brave and strong. Your father is not a carpenter, darling, he is a _genius_. He can build shields and armours to protect himself from giant whales. You should just have faith in his strength and intelligence. Do you think your father is strong?”

Tony nods slowly.

“Then why are you afraid?”

Tony shrugs.

“I miss dad. He doesn’t play with me anymore.”

Maria kisses the top of his head. “But he talks about you and asks about you all the time. He loves you very much. You’re his _real_ boy, Tony.”

Tony sucks in a slow breath and closes his eyes. “If I go missing and get swallowed by whale, would dad look for me too? Like Captain America?”

“He would never stop.”

“I’m a real boy, mom!”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ve got no strings on me~!”

Something cracks.

And Tony is _gasping_ as the dream starts to distort like an old black and white television screen, and his five year old singing voice turns synthetic, cracking and fading until it’s dark all around him, the memory dissolving into a black abyss. And Tony is _choking_ , hands coming up to claw at the thing on his face; he can still hear his mother’s voice, he can still hear the television playing Pinocchio, can hear himself sing that annoying song.

It’s like he is coated in candle wax, and everything feels _disgusting._  It issticky and smells like a petridish. Tony’s voice sounds distant and he doesn’t know what he’s seeing, except that he’s trying to get up, _get up, get up Tony, get up-_

Cold metal hands grab him by the shoulder and Tony finds himself standing face to face with number 23.

“Sir?”

Tony _whirls_ around and slaps a hand to his face. Feels it, runs his fingers through his sticky hair.

“Running diagnostics.” Friday's voice sounds crisper,  _clearer_.

The dark house is illuminated with 23’s sensors and the holographic projections of Tony’s vitals fill the dark and dusty room.

“Diagnostics is complete. High Voltage Protocol successful. Your body is functioning at 100%. It looks like it worked!" 

Tony _stares_.

He stares at his organs that resembles nothing like the crumpled, blotted and diseased ones he remembers seeing at the hospital. He looks at the rendered image of himself, how he looks like _now_ , younger, healthier, dare he say, he’s probably _glowing_ right now. Like he had spent a lifetime at the  _spa._

And then he’s _laughing._

And _laughing_.

And falling on the bloody carpet, naked and uncaring of the cold of the house enveloping him. He laughs and laughs and _laughs,_ the hysteric tenors _filling_ the house like fog being blown, his lips twisting in a smile, all teeth bared in the dark in a shit-eater grin.

(When everything is taken from you and you learn to live with nothing but fear and despair, and when that too, is taken away from you, what do you think you are going to be left with?)

“I’ve got no fucking strings on me!”

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can easily say that this story will mostly be told from Tony's POV. This chapter was more of an experiment and an attempt to get on the other side. I am still on the fence whether I liked this chapter or not.
> 
> Anyway. Getting to this point has been a challenge. And I can say that it will get worse before it can get better.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and giving this story a chance :)


	4. Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you have read CIVIL WAR and INFINITY WARS, you will understand some concepts here. I am loosely using material from both comics along side Extremis in order to really merge the version of CW MCU has coughed out and the original comics. Try is the key word here. Please note that this story remains a Tony-centric story and I am more interested in exploring his character development in this setting as opposed to actually, well, writing a comic book LOL. Also, Extremis side effects. 
> 
> I am my own beta, so I may have missed some typos and grammar here (or a lot). Fair warning!
> 
> ALSO, POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS OF ALL KINDS, JUST IN CASE.

“The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.”  
― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

  
It’s like being _everywhere_. All at once.

And then suddenly, it’s like an overflowing glass.

The moment Tony attempts to _connect_ to the Stark satellite network, it feels like his head is swimming with a _billion_ voices. It’s a little like opening a tap to its fullest in one go and the gush of water is strong, almost _painful_ because there is so much of it that it _floods_ in seconds. Tony is on the ground on his knees, hands in his hair and gritting his teeth, curled in on himself. The idea behind his reprogrammed version of Extremis had been to have open access to any network he connects to, along with full control of the suit with but a _thought_ ; Tony had not been prepared and so he _disconnects,_ thinks _stop!_ and _off!_ at the same time and just like that, like yanking a plug form the socket, his head is _quiet_ and he cannot see _anything_ but the dirty and dark living room of his family home, and 23 staring down at him.

Tony _pants_ , out of breath, like he’s been running a marathon.

“Friday?” He calls out, and swallows, his heart ramming against his chest and sweat forming on his temples.

“Are you all right, sir? Extremis is fully functional. And sir, you are projecting.”

Tony blinks his eyes several times, trying to get what he had seen to go away; it’s like a billion monitors had flared on a the same time. He had seen all sorts of things from within, what he’s guessing, is a hundred miles radius ranging from banks, schools, private offices, home networks, every single functioning cellphone in the area, _holy fuck_.

“Projecting?”

“It’s like you’ve forced yourself into everything, Sir and you’ve left a virtual footprint when you connected. Would you like to connect to my network instead, and take it a step at a time? Your reach seems to be a lot broader than mine.”

“I think you have the same range. Your security protocols limits your reach, though. All right, all right.” Tony rubs his hands together slowly and moves to lie back on the ground, uncaring if he’s lying in the cocoon he had broken out off, dried blood, dust and who knows what else. “Create a folder. I need to observe what happens when I’m actively using Extremis.”

“Security measures, sir?”

“Absolutely.” Tony lies there, sucks in a slow breath and exhales steadily. “This can’t get out. This is our secret, Friday.”

“Folder created.”

Tony’s hand crawls and jolts the tinniest bit when 23’s hands suddenly grasps his own. He blinks at 23 and is about to say something when Friday cuts him off.

“Focus on your hold on 23. Think of it like holding a float in a pool.”

Tony sucks another breath, closing his eyes and hands tightening against the metallic hand, that reciprocates the gesture.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

Tony mentally counts till three and _connects_ , eyes flashing open and staring unseeingly ahead of him, Extremis’ inky blank presence glazing over the whites of his eyes and over his pupils. Tony’s fingers around 23’s robotic hand is an _iron grip,_ telling himself to focus _, focus, focus on Friday, just Friday, just Friday, nothing but Friday_ , and then, just like that, Tony is standing in the middle of nothing.

Just an endless stretch of  white all around him, on and on it goes for as far as his eye can see.

And before him, the matrix and coding glow that glows in a rose gold hue, with flecks of purple and a shade that reminds him of bubblegum pink, floats in the sea of white, the only thing that breaks the ‘brightness’ of all that white.

“Hello, Sir.”

“Friday?” Tony looks at the floating cloud of coding before him and huffs out a laugh. It’s like JARVIS’ coding before ULTRON had shattered him to bits, except JARVIS had been a solid gold flow; Friday pulses and is bright, like fireworks.

“That’s me!”

The matrix cloud puffs out a bit, like a bird preening.

“Huh.” Tony reaches out with his hand and watches his hand go right through the coding. It’s like watching objects that does not respond to gravity move around his hand; Friday’s codes does not repel, nor do they cling to his hand. Friday just _floats_. Tony pulls his hand away and looks around his ‘mind work space’. “Why is it so quiet?”

“I have no control over your commands, sir, so I am unsure. But this is my network you’re in and I’m keeping my filters active.”

Tony looks at Friday and blinks. “I am focusing on you.” He says softly. “Just you. That’s what I thought of before connecting and…”

 _Got it_.

Tony reaches out with his hand towards Friday again and _focuses_ on adding new coding into Friday’s already existing system. The glow starts to shift and take form, like a billion stars coming together and forming something bright like the sun. Tony knows Friday’s codes inside and out and within seconds, the shape of what looks like a twenty-two year old _girl_ , like those interns that Tony remembers Stark Industries would hire as part of the Maria Foundation, star to form. Before him, Friday stands in pair of Mary-janes, folded socks, a dark pink pleated skirt and a crisp white blouse. Her hair is a nice tinge of rose gold, short and cut in sharp and jagged funky style, much like her personality. Friday’s eyes are bright and a deep shade of purple.

“Huh.” Tony’s eyebrows shoot up; writing that code had taken seconds and with nothing but thought and memory. “You look like a cross between Taylor Swift and Avril Lavigne.”

Friday’s grin is cheeky. “Not a red head.”

“Definitely not a red head.” Tony huffs and turns to look at a blank space. “I think I kind of got it. Let’s see. Nearby house cleaning services, range: twenty miles.”

Several screens pop up all around him, showing names of cleaning services available close by. It’s like using a computer without a keyboard. Since he is connecting through Friday’s network, it’s less messy and less loud because Friday only does work when she is told to. Tony tries to manipulate the results of his search, tries different way to display them in his mind. He pictures them like a picture book, flipping one page after the next. Then he tries picturing the results like a photo gallery on his Starkpad, results swiping before him one after the other. He watches the results being displayed move and evolve like binary data dissolving and forming — it’s almost eery and alien like.

And yet so _beautiful._

Tony makes a decision.

“Why are we looking at house cleaning services?”

“Because _you_ are going to have them come over first thing in the — wait, what day is it?”

“It’s Tuesday, sir. Two-forty-three A.M.” Tony blinks at Friday. “You’ve been encased in Extremis’ cocoon for seventy-two hours.”

Tony cranes his head upwards at the ceiling that is not there. He starts to give out commands and watches with amazement as Friday starts to make appointments for the Stark Estate to be made habitable again. He watches as orders are sent out for plumbing and utility services, watches as binary codes travel through the network and reach their destination, like little data packets  travelling through a matrix network.

And slowly, Tony starts to venture out, and a million doors starts to open all around him until the solid white of Friday’s network disappear and Tony is connected to the closest Stark Satellite. This time, there is no white, but just darkness with specs and clouds and bright stars and suns that represents internet traffic and data hubs all across the global network. They’re all binary, endless zeroes and ones and Tony feels his lips spread in a grin because _he understands it all_.

Cyberspace is literally like _space_.

Tony spends hours just lying there, snooping into everything, observing the neighbourhood and going further and further. He can find _anyone_ , can get into all the security cameras on the roads, bridges, underpasses, subways, airports, schools, university campuses – _anything_ with a camera. He can use his satellites to find anyone _anywhere_ , because the coding is his to program on the spot, he can create something with a thought, call for something with a thought, can breach security without the need and clutter of physical equipments and it feels like he’s got his arms spread wide open in his mind, fingers outstretched.

He calls the local pizza place that is not open and _preens_ when the phone rings.

He calls his own cellphone and somewhere, like a far away noise, his mind registers that his phone is actually ringing, somewhere in the family room.

And then the icing on the cake.

Tony connects with the Iron Man suit, and _feels_ it _flare_ to _life_. He feels the comfortable pressure and embrace of the suit starting to form all around him and then he lays there, in the middle of the Stark family room, on the ground, in sleek red and gold, the glow of the arc reactor cutting through the darkness of the abandoned home.

He dials Pepper’s number and reroutes himself straight to voicemail. Because at almost three in the morning, he does not want Pepper to wake up and have a supernova _meltdown_. “Pepper, I’m in town. Let’s meet ok? At the compound? Call back when you hear this.”

It is amazing that he can do all this without even moving a muscle. Physically, he is aware that he has not moved not even a twitch of his lips.

The next person on the list is Rhodey. “Compound. Tonight.”

“Sir?” Friday is floating beside in cyberspace, hands behind her back. “I received an automated confirmation for the cleaning crew. Also, if I may, Miss Potts, Vision and Colonel Rhodes have made numerous attempts to reach you while you were isolated by Extremis.”

“Oh?”

“It would seem that news of your sudden flight from Wakanda has reached them. It was King T’challa who has informed them of your delicate state.”

Tony _swears_.

“Do not worry, sir. You have time to come up with a cover up. Since you have given me command to screen your calls, I did not find anything pertaining to the details of your illnesses. King T’challa has expressed alarming concern, but has not mentioned anything in great detail save for something about a ‘a simple heart procedure’ being done.”

“Just T’challa?”

Friday nods, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s a good thing Steve and rest care more for their safety and secret. Otherwise - and don’t lie, you know it’s true - coming up with an excuse for all _that_ is something even _I_ would have difficulty pulling off.”

Friday looks like she is hesitating and for a moment, her purple eyes flicking away from Tony’s gaze. “Captain Rogers has left a message, sir.”

Tony’s response is clipped. “Of course he did.”

Friday’s lips are pursed and Tony realises he has given her dimples, too. He wonders why he had never thought of doing this before, giving his AI’s forms.

(Don’t you remember? Losing Edwin Jarvis had been the last nail to the coffin. That’s the only reason you didn’t give any of them forms. You would not have been able to cope with the fact that it wasn’t real because Jarvis was really gone. So was your mom, and much like you hate to admit it, your dad. You would have lost your mind if you had given them forms. But you’re okay _now_ , right?)

“I really think you should listen to this.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoots up and for a long moment, Friday holds his gaze, stubborn with lines appearing between her eyebrows. Looking at her with an actual ‘physical’ holographic form, he finds that it is harder to ignore her suggestions, let alone ignore the face she is making; Friday is the youngest AI in personality, after all, which probably explains her stubbornness.  

“Bring it up.”

A screen appears before him, displaying the time, date and the image of the caller. Steve had called his direct number, like he would have back in the days if they had any plans to meet outside for something. He calls his direct number like he is not in hiding and that in and of itself is basically Steve throwing the towel and not _giving a shit_ about _his_ own safety anymore.

(You _know_ Steve. He would never threaten his safety, especially the others, like this. He would never make a piss poor decision like calling you directly when he is one of the most hunted down criminals in the world right now.)

““Tony, Tony – Friday, I know you’ll get this, I know you’ll be screening this, there’s something I need to say…” Steve pauses. “You weren’t wrong. I was only looking at things one way, _my way_ , the way that I only know how, as a strategist and as _soldier_. I never looked at it the way you did, and maybe I saw the future but I was blind to the present. I didn’t trust the governments, the _world_ _leaders_ , and I still don’t, but that was not my biggest mistake.” Steve’s voice hitches. “My biggest mistake and _regret_ is that I didn’t _trust you_. Not enough. And for that, I am sorry. But Jesus Christ, Tony, I can’t — the thought that you’re — you just left without even a care for your wellbeing and — “ Tony hears the shaky inhale and he can tell that Steve is grinding his teeth; Steve isn’t even measuring his words anymore. He’s all over the place. “Do you know why I stopped you that day, in Siberia? From killing Bucky? Partly because Bucky is my friend, the only person I had left from who I was. But mostly because if you killed him, out of uncontrolled anger and a _personal reason,_ that would make you a _murderer_. And you are _not_ a murderer, Tony. You would have destroyed yourself with the guilt _after_. I know you. And this is not me thinking you’re a lesser man, _no_. Far from it. This is me saying this _because I know you_. Maybe it was not my right to make that choice for you, maybe I should have done things – a lot of things - differently, but **_I know you, Tony_**. Just - I mean - if you get this, if you make it, please, just let me know you’re okay _. That you didn’t just drop from the fucking sky in your suit!_ The world _needs you_. The Avengers _needs you_. And maybe so do _I_.” There is a pause. “Give me a sign that you’re okay. That’s all I’m asking. _Please_.”

The call disconnects.

Tony closes his eyes and temporarily disconnects from the global network, the reality of cyberspace shrinking down to first, the all white room of Friday’s network and then that too disappears when Tony physically closes his eyes and open them again to stare the plastic covering the chandelier on the ceiling. It happens in just a blink, probably faster than a second.

(Steve would _never_ do something like that if he had not been so cornered and _desperate_. You know this because just as Steve says he _knows_ you, even if you won’t admit it, _you know him, too_. Super soldiers aren’t so perfect, after all. Even they weep and cry and mourn and _fear_ , just the way you do.)

Tony gets up from the floor and stretches his arms above his head.

He knows what he needs to do.

Friday looks anxious, like she is not sure if showing Tony that message had been wise or not. She is actually tugging at the sleeve of her blouse.

“Get this place cleaned up, Friday. We’re moving shop here.” Tony says, rotating his neck and shaking his shoulders a bit. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly, watching Friday tilt her head to the side and blink in slight confusion.

“Sir?”

The Iron Man thrusters starts to power up and the hud slams shut with an audible metallic clang.

“We’ve got a _lot_ of work to do.”

—

Vision is standing by Tony’s bed when Tony steps out of the shower with nothing to cover his modesty. Tony pauses in the middle of vigorously towel drying his hair to look at Vision with a blink. Tony thinks he _should_ blush, but is surprised that he doesn’t. It’s not the first time anyone has walked in on him completely naked.

“To be honest, this would be inappropriate if you had been anyone else.”

Vision gives a bit of a shrug, “I am not anyone else.”

Tony hums in agreement and moves towards his closet, the doors sliding open mechanically as he tosses his towel towards a chair. Tony is tugging on a pair of boxers and jeans that he leaves unbuttoned as he goes through his shirts. “Go on, Vee. Don’t be shy, _now_. Ask the million dollar question.”

Vision remains silent as the shuffle of fabric against fabric fills the space between them. “I am unsure, really, how to address some concerns I have. Since you departed from the compound months ago, I’ve spent that time trying to put a line between my _own_ thoughts and judgment and - how should I say it - the system and protocols that had played a role in my creation. I am not JARVIS, nor does JARVIS exist anymore, or play influence to my thoughts and decisions. But I _think_ ,” Vision is paces a few steps, lips pursed to a thoughtful line, “that I may have _retained_ his _understanding_ of _you_. Or rather, some form of it in my subconscious mind.”

Tony stiffens at that, turning to actually face Vision.

“I do not have something _concrete_ about you and it does not come to me like an active thought or emotion, but what I have and what I am going to call JARVIS’ _data_ , I believe has played a role in _my_ understanding of _you_. To a certain point. I cannot fully understand it yet, but it has helped me in forming my own ‘thoughts and impressions’, one would say, of you.” Vision looks at Tony then. “I was worried.”

Something that feels like a hard pinch stings Tony then, somewhere deep in his chest. He knows Vision is a separate entity, that he is his own _self_ , that like he had just mentioned, he is _not_ JARVIS or Edwin Jarvis. Tony _knows_ that and he had acknowledged it a long time ago. But _damn_ if it still doesn’t get to him every time Vision makes _that_ face. Damn if it doesn’t get to him how he can always see Edwin Jarvis so _vividly_ when Vision looks at him _like that_. No matter how many times something like this happens, Tony is always reminding himself of the two very separate personas.

(You will never get used to it.)

“I _am_ worried.” Vision steps forward and presses both his hands to the bare curves of Tony’s shoulders. “I understand why you left, the concept of it. I respect it. But you didn’t _have to._ You are _not_ alone, Mr. Stark.”

Tony looks at a spot on Vision’s knitted pullover, and nods slowly.

“I am glad you have returned. It is good to have you back.”

Tony watches the small smile curve around the corners of Vision’s lips. He watches how what should be artificial irises, with its matrix like almost eery like synthetic fibres, dilate as Vision’s focus centers on just him - except, it doesn’t look quite synthetic anymore, does it? This close, Tony can feel the soft breaths that he knows does nothing for Vision, because he isn’t _human._ This close, Tony is a witness, once more, to how _emotions_ can make something as sentient as Vision, look so incredibly _human_ that Tony feels utterly _naked_ before him. Tony is not able to get used to this; he does not think he _ever_ will. Those blue eyes that reminds him of the glow of his holographic displays, is bright and very much _alive_ , shows just how much Vision had thought about this, how he must have stared out unseeingly at the stretch green that surrounds the Avengers compound as he analyses thoughts and dumps of old data.

Vision is standing far _too_ close.

Vision’s solid and sure hold, Tony realises, is keeping him up because right then and there when his knees suddenly feel weak; Tony remembers how just mere hours ago _,_ he had been wrestling _death_ and Vision is the first person he physically sees, physically _feels_ and the feel of him this close is leaving Tony reeling.

“I was dying.” Tony _blurts_ out, looking into the depths of those blue eyes.

Vision gives him a look, where his head tilts just the tiniest bit and there is a slight twitch of his non-existent eyebrow.

“I know.” Vision says, voice soft, quiet, like it’s a secret between them. “I looked for you when King T’challa called. I wished that I found you faster but you are a hard man to find when you put your mind to it. Even for _me_.” Tony sees sadness there, lines appearing just around the corner of Vision’s eyes, very slight, that if one does not know where to look, one would miss it. And in an even quieter whisper, Vision says, “I would have not left you to die alone, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s hands balls to a fist because his heart is hammering too fast again.

“Mr. Stark, I am your friend and ally. _I_ have decided that I will remain by _your_ side, so long as you are fighting for what’s right, for Humanity. This is my choice. Do you understand?”

Tony closes his eyes and dips his head and if they had been standing any closer, his forehead would be touching Vision’s chin.

“I understand.” Tony clears his throat.

“Good.” Vision says, and takes a step back, fingers sliding off Tony’s shoulders, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “By the way, Ms Potts is at the door. And Colonel Rhodes’ taxi has just pulled over at the main gate.”

And right then and there, Tony feels like he’s twelve and starts to _panic_.

(He is not Jarvis. Remember that.)

—

Tony can still feel the sharp sting against his cheek from where Pepper’s palm had connected solidly with as much _anger_ as her beautiful face is currently contorted to. He supposes that he deserves that and maybe he had needed it to. Because whatever panic that he had somehow given birth to while having his talk with Vision, that slap had knocked it right out of the ballpark.

And Tony is now thinking clearly again, heart rate slowly decreasing back to its normal levels.

“Well,” he says, turning to look at both Pepper and Rhodey. “who took the jelly out of your doughnut?” He brings a hand up to his lip and feels the slight tender flesh there. He keeps that in mind, and starts an internal clock; he is curious to know if part of the accelerated healing of the reprogrammed Extremis is actually functional.

Tony _yelps_ though, hopping a bit on one leg and reaching down with one hand to rub at his other when one of Rhodey’s crutches connects with his calf.

“ _You_ are a dick.” Rhodey says, sweat on his brow from where he clearly must have rushed his way into the living room.

“What the hell did I do _?”_ Tony asks, voice defensive and a touch petulant. “Why are you both _hitting_ me?”

Pepper doesn’t give him a chance to respond and before Tony gets to open his mouth to say anything, his arms is filled with her familiar and warm figure, slender fingers carding through his hair in a painful reminder of something he had long lost. But it does not make him bitter, it does not hurt the way it would have hurt several months ago. Tony does not dwell more on it though and instead, the feeling is buried and locked away as his hands come up to embrace Pepper, the feeling of her warmth and familiar perfume grounding him.

Rhodey hobbles away and Tony is pleased to see that his upper body is more stable now; Rhodey is no quitter.

Neither is Pepper.

“Suddenly, T’challa calls and asks us where you are, and he tells us that you had a heart related procedure _done_ in _Wakanda.”_

Pepper says that as she pulls away from her embrace and there are tears in her eyes, large and clear as crystals; her nose is bright red, as are the tips of her ears and this close, Tony can count freckles on her equally flushed cheeks, just like he had on so many nights when he had held her this close. He doesn’t count them though and simply reaches up to cup her face and swipe the tears away with both his thumbs.

“Yes, I did. I was not well, and there is a possibility I may have collapsed during the meeting. I have been seeing a doctor and taking medication for it, did I not tell any of you?” Tony says softly, and cuts Pepper off before she can start _screaming_ her head off for just dumping information like _that_ , as if Tony is simply narrating a weather forecast. “But I’m fine _now_. Never better, actually. Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how _good_ I look right now, hmm?”

And that does the trick because Pepper takes a step back and looks at him. Really _looks_ at him.

So does Rhodey.

“Tony, did you like, do _Botox_ or something?” Rhodey asks, unsure. “Coz you look —“

“Ten years younger.” Pepper continues and then just like that, the righteous anger is back. Tony had known that he had a very slim chance of dissuading either of the two from their anger. “Tony, no one, absolutely _no one_ , leaves critical care in a robotic suit —“

“Mechanical is the right term —“

“— and _flies away_ after a _heart procedure!_ No matter how ‘small’! What the _hell_ is wrong with you? Do you just lack self-preservation or do you just really want to kill yourself?”

Tony stills and suddenly the whole room seems to have frozen for a moment. Standing there, the four of them with Vision standing vigil behind the orange sofas, there is a poignant silence that feels a little too much like standing on the edge of a cliff. Tony knows that what he says right in that moment will either make or break what relationship he may have had left with these two people. He opens his mouth to answer, to outright _lie_ and say T’challa is fucking a liar, he’s harboring criminals so therefore he is lying to the entire fucking world, my heart is perfectly fine, and maybe I had just wanted to _die_ because it just seemed less painful that way. I was ready but I just couldn’t. I was _scared_ to die because I knew I would be a disappointment to _you_.

“I did.” Tony admits, and watches the colour drain from Pepper’s face and Rhodey’s eyes go _so wide_. “I flew out of Wakanda because I couldn’t stand it. I took a three day vacation, recuperated somewhere quiet, and undisturbed. A spa of sorts.” Tony turns away then, walks past Vision towards the connecting open kitchen of the main room. He busies himself with taking out three cups, pouring coffee into each of them. “I needed the undisturbed time to make a _decision_ as much as I needed it to heal.”

The silence stretches and when Tony looks up, his eyes are as hard as diamonds. He watches as Rhodey frowns just a touch and Pepper looks a little confused.

Tony doesn’t smile.

He can’t seem to make himself to, for some reason, like his lips are frozen in an unreadable line. Between the flight back to the compound and him taking a shower, he had brought himself up to speed with how the Accords had been coming along, had taken a peek at what Steve and the rest had been up to. It had been an informative flight and shower because while there are people who are fighting for positive and equal rights for super powered individuals, while there are still people out there like Steve who go in and fight behind the shadows where they can to help people where the Accords have no jurisdiction over, the reality remains that there is absolutely no guarantee that the Accords will pull through and provide an equal umbrella of benefits and rights to all parties involved when shit individuals like _Ross_ had a hand in the wheel. Shit like Ross are the reasons people do not want to sign and it is simply out of one thing: fear.

(You regret not knowing better all those year ago when you approached Ross at the bar after Banner had pretty much destroyed Harlem.)

He had a few ideas that may garner positive public opinion and most of all, the _people’s_ trust.

The corners of his lips quirk up then, just the tiniest hint, almost rough around the corners like his hardened gaze.

“I’m back and I’m not going anywhere this time.” Tony just says and when he looks at Pepper, and then at Rhodey, he thinks that for now, his answer is enough.

—

By the time Tony had concluded his business plans with Pepper, it is late in the evening and the sky is dark outside. Tony had explained to them, over Thai lunch take out, that he is shutting down the mansion, emptying it and packing away everything to until he figures out what he wants to do it. He informs them of where he’s moving back and had made himself clear that he had no interest in holding the title of ‘Avenger’.

Pepper had brought him up to speed with how Stark Industries is doing, their current figures, marketing successes and how their product demand had not diminished during his short absence. She had also brought him up to speed to the board’s agreement on the Hydraulics project with Wakanda and that it is only his signature that is needed on the document.

Tony tells her to invite T’challa or his team to finalize the legality of things, leave the ball on T’challa’s court.

He and Rhodey do not make it in time for the concert in New York but they manage to catch the performance in DC and scramble for last minute arrangements. Tony had to use his influence, name and cash to secure admission and arrange last minute accommodation. They agree to meet later that week at the Stark manor and take the private jet. That night, he, Rhodey and Vision sit together in the living room that had once been filled with a lot more noise and laughter, and watch old action movies over the much promised and very large cheese burgers. There had been no need to talk then and instead, they sit in comfortable silence as the movie plays. Tony must have been as exhausted as Rhodey after his rigorous effort at his rehabilitation exercises that morning because without realising, Tony thinks he must have dozed off.

It is when he feels his chin slipping down his palm that he jolts awake and realises that the movie is rolling the credits and Rhodey is fast asleep on the couch, stretched out and snoring softly. Vision is gone, probably off wandering the city like he does sometimes. Tony gets up and grabs the blanket by the foot of the couch, covering Rhodey with it; the television is switched off and Tony ends up sitting there, staring at the empty living room.

He suddenly feels sudden and _intense_ hate for it, disgust coating his tongue and leaving a horrid taste at the back of his throat.

The hate is red hot and peppered with betrayal that Tony suddenly stands from his seat and heads for the kitchen. Tony’s hand hovers over a bottle of scotch, but doesn’t quite close around the neck. He pulls his hand away instead and decides to go to his workshop where he isolates himself and sits on the  surface of his work-bench, connecting to the network and digging through cyberspace. This way, he can multi-task. On one side, he is updating and making repairs on the armour, because that had been the idea, after all, to store the armour within the hollows of his bones, and be able to repair it without having it physically before him. On the other hand, he is developing handheld applications and brainstorming accessory designs for Stark Industries in order to boost more sales. And on the other, he start to build defensive security for himself, because sooner or later, he is going to have to put his detective hat on and start scavenging the virtual world for _dirt_ and he wants to be completely undetectable.

He does not now know how many hours he loses himself in Extremis and cyberspace or how much time he spends brainstorming ideas to move towards the cause he had in mind, but by the time he comes back to himself and he has uploaded new application products for his marketing team and the board to review on Stark Industries servers, he finds himself observing his security footage from when he had first connected to the network. He observes how his eyes go inky black and how his body barely moves from where he is lying on the carpet, if the slight twitch of his fingers around 23’s metallic hand doesn’t count. He is going to have to work on having on hand image alteration device, something to disguise the blackness of his eyes and just as quickly as the idea comes, he quickly makes note of installing a holographic technology on all his eyewear. He re-watches the view of himself one more time and disconnects from the network.

Except he _starts_ with a physical jolt and brings a hand to chest because he had not expected DUMMY to be in front of him all of a sudden, holding a package up to him and insistently nudging him on the knee with it, his soft whines and whirrs sounding a little like an ignored mechanical puppy.

He is going to have to figure out a way to be more aware of his surroundings when he taps into Cyberspace.

Friday comes to mind, and Tony thinks as the idea forms in his mind, _huh, I think I have solution. I’m going to have to try that._

“Hey buddy.” Tony says gently and takes the package from Dummy who whirrs and _coos_ before moving away from him back towards the corner, where he is packing away things with Butterfingers and You.

There is no address on the package but Tony tears the brown recycled-paper wrapping and feels something catch in his throat. It is a long time before he realises exactly _what_ he is staring at and Tony is a hundred percent sure that most of his belongings from when he had been a child had been either donated or disposed of. He recognises the old Pinocchio book; how can he not? He had spent endless nights reading it with his mother and later on, until he had grown out of it, with Jarvis. He recognises the fading edges and how the hard cover is starting to come apart from the corners in layers of cardboard.

There is a sudden clatter from where his bots had knocked down something. Tony is on his feet, knuckles white against the old book and stalking his way towards his bots. He doesn’t get far though because suddenly his chest is _hurting_ , the pain red hot and stabbing, pinching and radiating down his left arm and he know this is not _possible_ because he has a new heart now. And it’s not just his chest anymore, because the pain is flaring from his sides too, crippling him and making him collapse on the ground, book falling with him in a clatter and lying open before him. Tony can’t _breathe_ and he tries to call out for someone, _anyone_ , Rhodey’s name a choking whisper on his lips.

He looks at his bots desperately, but they simply continue to pack away his tools and equipment, unaware of his distress.

Tony’s trembling mouth open to suck in a breath and he scrunches his eyes to try to push the pain aside. Then there are cold metallic hands suddenly wrapping around him, _hauling_ him off the ground, then wrapping around his shoulders and waist, like a lover, intimate, _personal,_ the way someone who _cares_ for you would _hold_ you. Except Tony sees the metallic arms, he recognises the _red glow_ , feels their iciness against his skin.

He doesn’t need to turn around to know who or _what_ is holding him up.

And he thinks this can’t be real.

 _It can’t_.

“Would you like to see your future, Tony?”

Ultron’s voice is _clear_ and _cold_ and _real_ against his ear.

And before Tony can respond, he watches his workshop melt before his eyes and sees the chaos of space and the endless sea of bloodied and broken bodies before him. He knows this picture _too_ well, he knows how it begins and he knows how it ends. Steve is there, lying dead and when Ultron releases him, Tony falls on his kness before him, hands soaking in blood from the moment he touches Steve’s chest.

_And oh my god, there is so much blood, stop, please stop --_

Steve _jolts_ and Tony knows what he’s going to say, except the words that leave him are different this time, “Why did you abandon us? Why didn’t you protect us? Why didn’t you do more? We were your friends! This was your world! We were your world!”

Tony watches with unsurmountable _horror_ as Steve takes his last breath and the blue of his eyes disappear, filling with the dilated blackness of his pupils. That cold hand suddenly fists in Tony’s hair, ripping a cry out of his throat, as Ultron yanks him off Steve’s form and Tony’s back _slams_ against Ultron’s chest. There is cold fingers against his face, tracing down the side of his cheek and down the lines of neck, a mockery of a lover’s touch.

“You are meant to _destroy_ everything; do you understand now? No matter what you do, you will destroy everything. There is nowhere for you to run, or hide.”

Tony eyes scrunches shut, opens his mouth and thinks _no, no, no, no, no — !_

“I will always be a part of you.”

The scream that _rips_ out of Tony’s throat then is _raw_ and _terrified_ and suddenly he’s falling to his knees with Ultron dissolving into a billion nanites, crawling all over him, up and into his parted and screaming lips and down his throat until he’s choking and choking and _choking,_ screaming and screaming and so, so _scared —_

Tony’s knees connects solidly with the ground and that sends a sharp jolt through him and suddenly there are hands on his shoulders. Except these are not cold hands. They are large, warm and calloused; Tony feels himself shake with a force that makes the curdling scream stutter in his throat and right there, before him, is Rhodey, kneeling on the floor in an awkward angle even with his leg braces on, color gone from his face.

“Tony!” He says, sharp, cutting and commanding like the military commander he is.

Hands come up to Rhodey’s forearms and Tony realises he is _still_ in the living room and the television is showing the blu-ray menu. Vision is standing behind Rhodey, a pinch between his brows and he’s looking at Tony that way, that fucking way that Tony remembers far too well, that _helpless way_. Tony blinks once and Vision is gone and what he sees instead is Edwin Jarvis. And Tony cannot look away, he doesn’t dare. His eyes are wide as his breath gets stuck in his throat for a moment and then Jarvis is tilting his head to the side, lips parted to say _something_ , to say _anything_ to bring comfort to his charge. But no words leave Jarvis’ mouth and  Tony opens his mouth to speak, to tell him he’s okay , he’s fine, like the countless times he had lied to Jarvis all those years when he had been anything _but_ okay. What comes out instead is a noise that Tony’s doesn’t recognize, small and keening like a wounded animal. It feels like it lurches up from the very pit of his stomach and then Tony doesn’t know what happens with himself, he doesn’t know why his body is betraying him or why his chest _hurts_ in a way that it shouldn’t anymore. And never should.

He doesn’t understand what is happening with himself because suddenly Rhodey is wrapping arms around him, tight and sure, a hand coming to his head as the sounds that leave Tony’s lips fill the far too quiet house.

“I got you buddy, I got you, it’s okay. _It’s okay._ ”

Tony doesn’t understand _why_ he’s _crying_.

He doesn’t know where that fervent and violent noise is coming from and he wants it to stop, just stop, please stop. But it doesn’t, and it keeps coming out and out and out until Tony feels like his throat is being ripped to shreds.

Tony doesn’t know how long he remains like that, _bawling_ like he’s lost _everything,_ like he’s afraid of even himself.

And through it all, Tony realises two things:

He is never going to be able to call this place ‘home’ anymore.

He will never be able to sleep again.

—

Rhodey had seen a lot of horrors during his service at the military. He had always been a tough cookie, with a good head on his shoulders and gifted ability to just keep powering through no matter how tough the times get. He had always been able to come up with a good mental and strategic plan to learn how to cope with events and situations that either affect him personally or, during his service and deployment, his teammates.

Having Tony Stark as his best friend had helped in keeping Rhodey on his toes.

And Rhodey knows what _war_ can do to a man. He knows what being a _soldier_ can do to a _man_. He had been witness to screams that cut through the desert night, had been witness to men learn how to silence those screams during infiltration or extraction missions. He knows what leaving behind a teammate can do to a man, how the hard decision will always claw away at the back of one’s mind, like a lingering shadow that haunts you and never goes away. He understands what _guilt_ can do to a man, how it can pool like bruises under one’s eyes, like a physical punishment for a call one makes in a fight, flight or die situation. It would eat away at the flesh making cheeks hollow and eyes go dull, turning a warrior to a ghost of their former strength and glory.

(You know the horrors, you have seen them. You are no stranger to closing your eyes and waking up in the night hearing the screams of me, or the feel of blood cooling in your hands as you try to save a soldier that has long taken his last breath.)

Rhodey likes to think that his experience has made him sturdier, that he doesn’t scare so _easily_ because being the pilot of War Machine _requires_ him to _not_ scare so easily.

And yet, Rhodey hasn’t felt genuine _fear_ than he had that night when he held Tony in his arms and the screams had slammed into him, had shaken him to the very core of his being.

He had knelt there, uncaring of the cramp and pressure on his sides, holding Tony as tight as he can to contain the trembling screams that had poured out of Tony’s mouth. He had knelt there and closed his eyes and pretended that the moisture running down his cheeks had been the sweat forming on his skin . He had knelt there and waited, and waited until Tony had stopped and slumped against him, and even then, Rhodey had not let go, not until the minute trembles had eased and goosebumps on Tony’s cold sweat damp skin had receded.

(Sometimes, at night, you think you can still hear that scream in your ears.)

Rhodey does not know what had made Tony come apart the way he had that night.

And maybe he will never know.

Because when the sun had started to rise above the horizon, Tony had gotten up from where his head had been pillowed on Rhodey’s lap, rubbed his nose once and then asked him and Vision if they had felt like going out for pancakes. And just like that, it had been dropped and they had never spoken of it again.

It is always like that with Tony, for as long as Rhodey had known him for. Even after his parents’ funeral, after Afghanistan and Hammer, after Killian and Vanko, after losing Pepper and the Ultron disaster and watching Happy suffer in a coma, after Loki and theportal and countless other hiccups in the middle, Tony had always managed to pick himself up again and not _crack_. Not all the way, at least. He had strapped on his big boy boots, had drowned himself in work, women, men and parties or sometimes all of it at once, and took it with a grain of salt and called it a day. That way, for not being a soldier, Tony had bravery that no other men had. A lesser man and a decorated soldier would have long ago taken his life if they had undergone _half_ of the shit Tony had gone through, and Rhodey knows men who had done just that.

Tony truly is, _Iron Man_.

But it is because Rhodey knows him for too long that he knows Tony is no longer the same he had once been. While he looks younger now, healthier, physically _stronger_ , while he pretends to wolf down pancakes and head bangs and throw rock on signs to the concert that they finally go to, while he continues to joke with Rhodey, and to a point Vision, Pepper and sometimes Happy too, there is something distant and disconnected about it. Tony does not change how he treats them, but Rhodey knows that they are the probably the _only_ ones who gets an inclusive invite to what is truly left of Tony Stark’s heart.

They are little things that Rhodey picks up as the days from that incident turns to weeks and week into months.

Tony spaces out often and has taken to wearing his tinted glasses all the time now. He does not go out beyond necessary meetings at Stark Industries HQ or if it’s with him and they’re hitting a joint they had used to go to back during their college days. Rhodey loses count of the amount of times he had spent nights in the Stark manor (because it’s not like he has his own family to go home to and his apartment is just as quiet anyway) and wakes up to the sound of the piano echoing through the halls and rooms. He always finds Tony sitting there, playing a song he does not really recognize, with him staring out the window and at the shadow of the trees spreading over the garden beyond. Tony is always looking at something over his shoulder, he is always on guard.

The funny thing about it all is, if Rhodey is being honest with himself, is that Tony treats him better, in the sense that Rhodey is more informed of the things Tony plans to do. Which, in hindsight, isn’t necessary a bad thing (it is actually a _very_ good thing), but at the same time, it is almost unnatural.

The first time Tony does it is two months later after the incident in the compound, while they are having coffee in the Stark manor. After asking Rhodey to pass him another cookie , Tony tells him, that he – indirectly – is going to put Ross away for good. And then Friday (that form is something Rhodey is never going to get used to), had appeared out of nowhere and beings to project _all_ of Ross’ dirty laundry all around the large kitchen. Rhodey remembers sitting there reading the information in _horror_ and feeling disgust pool in his belly like a bad hangover waiting to be vomited out.

The second time Tony does it is when he returns from a short trip to the other side of New York, and tells him that he is going fund the first super powered school to train and educate youngsters. The facility had been put in the back burner for a while as the Accords goes through continuous amendment and review, with more and more minds and countries getting involved in making it more _feasible_. Tony tells him that he is modelling it after a school that already exists, and while they are two separate things, the idea is _similar_. Tony had looked so excited then, and out of nowhere, had pitched the idea to Rhodey that he should consider, maybe, teaching there.

(You have not been able to take that idea out of your mind ever since.)

The third time Tony does it is the one you will never forget. It is a little after Stark Industries had started started branching into medical research, a little after Helen Cho’s visit to the manor and officially coming to work for Stark Industries as its head of medical innovation and research. Tony had called him to his work shop and showed him in a detailed presentation of his nanite technology, the same thing that Killian had used on many men who had blown themselves up, the same thing that plagued Pepper for months, now nothing but docile and ‘extremely stable’ technology. Rhodey remembers slowly sinking down to a stool, taking in what Tony is really telling him; his legs can be fixed for _good_.

“You can walk, run, jump and cartwheel if you want to. Again.” Tony says, face unreadable, _guarded,_ and Rhodey realizes then that Tony had been waiting for a rejection.         

(You do not know _why_ Tony would be waiting for a rejection.)

It had come with conditions though, that it would be a slow process of healing because this is technology Tony Stark is _not_ willing to share with the world and the public would wonder why Colonel James Rhodes is _suddenly_ walking again. Because this is technology that can fall at the wrong hands and Tony had not been able to look at Rhodey in the eye when he says, “I trust you, buddy. Our hands is better than anyone else’s.”

(He cannot look at you because those words had not been his own.)

Rhodey doesn’t immediately agree to use the specifically programmed Extremis, but he tells Tony that he wants time to really, really think about it.  

Then one day, Tony tells you he has found Nick Fury. He tells you that one day, when the garden is free of weeds, the Accords will need a unit that will represent their cause. That one day, SHIELD will rise again and this time, it will be because the people _ask_ for it.

Rhodey doesn’t sleep that night, thinking of how Tony had spoken with such _conviction_ , like he knows things before they will happen.

The day before the press conference, though, Tony _drinks_. Oh how he drinks and _drinks_ , and Rhodey had to ask Vision to quickly get rid of all the alcohol in the house before Tony keels over for good. Tony drinks _so much_ that Rhodey had refused to go home, had gotten angry and actually _yells_ at Tony, picks a fight with him over something so trivial (given everything that has happened) as alcohol consumption. And yet, Tony had simply sat there on the piano bench, watching the news projecting before him, watching as the reporter talks about vigilantes saving a small village in Tanzania, a small group of three dressed in black and how suspicions they are, that they are possibly the Avengers still out there hiding, fighting the good fight.

Rhodey had taken _one glance_ , just _one,_ at the fighting style and he knows immediately that it is the Falcon, Hawkeye and Captain America who had saved the small village.

Tony watches the news on replay until Rhodey asks – no, _yells_ – at Friday to shut it off. It doesn’t. And instead, the news disappears and is replaced by a series of zeroes and ones, binary codes that runs and changes rapidly, shifting here and there until Friday confirms that all existing proof and surveillance of Captain Rogers’ actions has been deleted from the global network. Rhodey realizes that Tony must have programmed Friday to continuously monitor such things and that there is only one course of action when such footage or proof surfaces online.

(You are absolutely _baffled_ but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Tony will always put on a devil may care front but deep down, you know, or rather, you should have known better. Because Tony is one of the few who can never truly look away. Tony will _always_ be there, no matter how he acts or what he does that may contract that fact. No matter how many times the world crucified him or leave him behind.)

“Rhodes?” Tony asks, quietly, unmoving, as he stares at the keys of the piano.

It is the way Tony says Rhodey’s name that successfully plants the seed fear in Rhodey, somewhere deep in his gut. It is not fear because of what Tony may do, but fear in the realization that Tony is no longer Tony, that maybe sometime during that trip in Wakanda, Tony truly _died_.

It is fear in the realization that Tony may just not really bounce back out of this one.

“I would _never_ abandon any of you. You know that, right?”

And there’s absolutely nothing Rhodey can do, except sink slowly on the piano bench beside Tony, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it.

“I know that, buddy.” He says softly, and has never felt more helpless in his life.

—

By the time T’challa receives the final contract with Anthony Stark’s signature on it along with an invitation to finalise things, he does not know what to make of it. He had accepted without hesitation, tying in the visit to Stark Industries with his other meetings with General Ross and the representatives of the Accords. It is not something he is particularly looking forward to and T’challa knows his reasons are petty if only because it is people like Ross that makes it hard for him to enjoy these meetings. While the Accords has undergone numerous reviews and they are in the process of providing individual contracts that caters to the needs of specific heroes, T’challa knows they still have a lot of work to be done. In a way, he is grateful for Hank McCoy and Susan Storm’s presence and involvement in the Accords. Both their presences had managed to fill in the void that Tony Stark had left behind.

T’challa meets Tony almost six months later and it is mostly a courtesy call rather than anything else.

It is not like T’challa had not used his network to keep an eye on Tony from the moment his office had received confirmation that Tony Stark is in fact in New York, and is well and alive and back from vacation, _thank you for keeping me informed,_ Pepper had said. T’challa knows that the Avengers compound had been stripped, cleaned and closed off. T’challa knows for a fact that Tony had returned to the mansion Howard and Maria Stark had lived in, the home that Tony had grown up in. T’challa also knows that Tony has been meeting with people T’challa had least expected him to, like Professor Charles Xavier; Tony had personally gone to the mansion. There had been others too, like Hank Pym and Reed Richards. And T’challa knows what they are all for. He had read the proposals and plans for reconstructions that the old Avengers mansion is currently undergoing to cater and fully show that Tony Stark is still in support of the Accords. T’challa had received plans for the training and educational facility it is being turned into as part of Tony’s good will donation.

There is only so much information T’challa’s network can gather without them getting exposed.

(And you are smart enough to know better than to misplace your judgement like you had back then. You also know better than to inform the guests you are hiding exactly what you know.)

They had seemed like odd meetings at first but Tony does not seem to be trying too hard to hide his true intentions because sooner or later, a new announcement or business deal, or in this case, the generous donation becomes known to the parties directly or indirectly involved.

Tony though, looks _well_.

During their meeting, Tony is distant but polite, as sharp as the suit he is dressed in and the intelligence that is hidden behind the incredibly handsome and charismatic face. T’challa had not expected anything personal from the meeting, had not expected any mention of the incident in Wakanda, and he does exactly what he is invited for. When the meeting concludes and the boardroom is emptied, it is the first time the entire day that T’challa finds himself alone in private with Tony.

“You look well, Mr. Stark.” T’challa says from where he is sitting.

Tony is standing by the glass window, hands behind his back, staring at the stretch of New York city before him. “You sound like the tabloids. Are you going to ask me if I’ve done botox, too?”

“Just an observation.” T’challa says, and Tony turns to face him then. “I am _glad_.”

The words are soft, sincere, because he owes Tony _that_ much.

But Tony is not what T’challa remembers him to be. Beyond the sharp lines of the man before him is something unreadable, like a wall that is as cold and as icy as the arctics. T’challa barely recognises the man before him, because while he still sound like Tony when he speaks of technology and business, it is not the same. There is a chill around Tony that makes him seem completely untouchable now and it baffles T’challa how can a man go from someone who had absolutely no hope in living longer than a year _at most_ , to _this_.

Tony doesn’t smile, when maybe, once upon a time, he might have, cheeky and teasing with maybe even a whisper of a flirt dancing around the corner of his lips. There is no sarcasm or wry words, not dry humour or anything that T’challa had come to associate Tony with.

This man is like a distorted image of the man the world had come to know.

(And with Tony’s intelligence, you’re wondering if the man before you is even real. If he’s even _human_ or just a manufactured image to represent a dying man who is lying somewhere in a bed, hidden from the world.)

“So am I.” Tony says, and while one corner of his lips curve upwards, the gesture does not reach his eyes.

It’s his eyes, T’challa realises, that had changed the most. They remind him of molten metal, glossy in its lustre, but cold despite the heat it contains in its liquid form. Something in T’challa’s gut does not want to trust this man before him and yet, his guilt and debt obligates him to do so.

His thoughts are momentarily disrupted when the door opens and Tony’s personal assistant is poking her head in, informing Tony that the press conference is about to go live in a few minutes and that they are waiting for him.

It is that moment that T’challa stands before Tony, offering his hand. The handshake Tony gives him is firm, like what one would expect from an incredibly powerful businessman.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. I look forward to this project’s completion.”

“As do I.” Tony says and T’challa releases his grip, except Tony doesn’t let him go, not immediately. T’challa is perfectly still as Tony leans in close, just enough for him to hear the weight of the silent threat behind the words that are whispered. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s impolite to be nosy?”

T’challa’s blinks but does not betray his surprise. His voice remains low and smooth, not a hitch in its tenor. “Healthy curiosity.”

“You know the saying: curiosity killed the cat.” Tony’s grip tightens momentarily. “Back off, your _highness_. I’m not the one you should be keeping an eye out on.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Stark?”

“ _Warning,_ is the correct term.” Tony says and releases the handshake, taking a step back and reaches down to button down his suit jacket, ready to leave. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, your highness.”

The threat tastes like bad wine at the tip of T’challas lips, extremely sour with a lingering bitterness that one cannot ignore. He is left standing there for a long moment. He does not like feeling cornered but he supposes tit for tat is an appropriate way to look at things. He wants to be angry, wants to bare claws at the threat that had been so blatantly thrown in his face like a dirty wet rag. But he knows that he cannot fault Tony; when a predator feels cornered, they will lash out.

And Tony had been threatened _several_ times.

T’challa understands.

Which is why he is exiting the boardroom and making his way to his waiting vehicle. He had intended to walk past the press conference that is starting, he had intended to not linger and listen to Tony’s words, but as the greetings and thanks and pleasantries wraps up, he finds himself rooted where he is standing and listening to Tony’s speech.

“For the past several months, you have all witnessed Stark Industries advance and overcome its competitors. For the past several months, you have all asked where I have been, have questioned my motives behind my sudden interest in the wellbeing of the people and in general, in raking in more profits than I, and my predecessor already have in the past.” The silence in the room is thick, that T’challa thinks his own breathing is _loud_. “There is nothing I can say that Pepper Potts and other representatives of Stark Industries hasn’t already said. But I can tell you what you can expect to see in the next coming months. I did not gather you all here today to talk about the direction Stark Industries is pursuing; in that regard, I reiterating that Stark Industries will continue to pursue its current investments and we will continue to provide quality products and service to the people.”

“I gathered you all here today to answer the questions you have all wanted to have answers to.  Officially, as of today, I am relinquishing my title as an Avenger and surrendering all ties to the Avenger’s Initiative.” The room _explodes_. “Iron Man will remain on hiatus. That is not to be confused with the fact that Iron Man will not rise to defend our world when an alien threat comes knocking at our door, because _I will_ protect you, with _everything_ I’ve got. I would _never_ turn my back against you.”

“However, currently, Iron Man’s presence in the public eye is redundant. There are other heroes coming up and protecting those who need it, the little guys are being watched over. That being said, I have no idea where the rest of the Avengers are save for Colonel James Rhodes and Vision. I have not been in any contact with them. Their acts and their decision are their own and I have no control or interest in pursuing avenues that may, perhaps, revive the Avengers Initiative. I do _not_ know where they are and quite frankly, I don’t care. It is no longer my concern.”

“I understand that my words may sound like they are words coming out of a man who may to some, seem like a failure. I can understand that I may look like I am abandoning people who I may have once called my teammates. Some may even go as far as saying that I am _traitor_ to my own kind, someone who turns his back against superheroes all together.”

“But what a lot of people forget is that superheroes are really just people, like you and I, regular old citizens of just regular old countries. And I can promise you, that for as long as I am alive, I will _never_ abandon humanity. Years ago, when I was trapped in a cave, a man gave up his life so that _I_ can live. I promised that man that I would do good by the people, that I would not waste my life and that is exactly what I am trying to achieve now. I will never be able to please everyone, I will impress many but also disappoint many. This is something that I have come to accept and this is a realistic approach to what I know sounds like a bold and broad statement.”

“My goal is to work _for_ the people. Be it superheroes _or_ not. In that regard, I am pleased to announce that in support of the Accords and the vision of a hundred fifty countries, I am donating the former Avengers Compound as a safe ground to foster education for super-powered individuals _everywhere_. If this world is to progress, education must be its foundation. Wars are started because people feel oppressed and because they are denied a chance to choose and have access to knowledge and opportunity to be part of our thriving and continuously evolving society.”

 “I am going to do everything to ensure mankind survival, that every single person can get a chance to become doctors, nurses, engineers, educators, artists and philosophers so that when — “ Tony closes his eyes then and for a moment, his voice hitches. Tony clears his throat and for a moment, T’challa sees vulnerability there, a flash of the man he remembers seeing lying on the hospital bed, with hundred wires and tubes attached to his dying body. “— when or _if_ the time comes that our world is reduced to its _knees_ , for whatever reason, we can be sure that our future generation is well equipped with the tools, the knowledge and most of all the confidence to ensure mankind’s survival. That they will not fear what may come from the sky because they _know_ they can _survive_ and get back up again. This is the legacy I _will_ leave behind.”

“I do not know what the future brings. But I can _try_ to make sure that the world is prepared for it. That is my plan. That is my goal. Thank you all for coming.”

T’challa watches as Tony steps back from the podium and the reporters swarm towards him like hungry locusts. Tony’s multiple donations and projects suddenly makes a lot of sense. T’challa calls off his networks’ watch on Tony, and for now, tell himself to be content with what he knows and for a change, take Tony at face value because the man had earned it that afternoon.

T’challa is on a plane back to Wakanda when he receives an e-mail with the subject titled: Transparency.

And when he opens it, he is _horrified_ by what he sees.

There is information about Ross and his involvement with things that renders him utterly unfit to be even sitting at the Accords’ council. T’challa drowns in countless reports, data, video proof, voice messages that puts Ross in involvement with experiments, missions and warrantless military commands , his involvement with Bruce Banner and how he had ostracised the man for things that are beyond his control — there is so much information that not only can put men like Ross behind bars, but also data of people from all around the globe who is more fit to sit at the council.

There is even information on Nick Fury and his whereabouts and the things he is wrongfully accused of, all because of Hydra’s complex networks.

It leaves T’challa reeling.

The message is completely untraceable and T’challa finds himself huffing a nervous laugh right there in the privacy of his jet as he grabs a glass of scotch and swallows it in one go. His gaze is drawn to the single line in the entire message.

_Told you I’m not the one you should be keeping an eye out on._

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That went well, didn't it?
> 
> Also, after re-reading this, I can't be the only one who thinks Vision is sexy. @_@
> 
> Also, to every single one of you who comes back to read this, to everyone who takes the time to comment and correct my gramma (OneMoreDay :) ), and everyone who leaves kudos behind, thank you so much!


	5. Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: DISTURBING DUBCON/HINTS AT RAPE IMAGERY THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
> 
> I am my own beta I am pretty sure I have missed mistakes here and there. Apologies in advanced.

“Everything seems simpler from a distance.”   
― Gail Tsukiyama, The Street of a Thousand Blossoms

Time is inconsequential.

Back in the day, Tony had always worried about time, had always tried to get the upper hand. He had gone after time like a crack addict when he had been chasing after deadlines at MIT. He had _fought_ for it with everything he had been capable off in that dark, dusty and humid cave. He had clung to it when Pepper had been taken, had practically been dragged around by it when Stane had yanked his arc reactor out of his chest. He had negotiated with time when the concept of Ultron had been _so close_ to fruition, and he had _begged_ with time when Ross had _threatened_ to throw all his ‘friends’ into jail. He had _raced_ against it when he had left the raft to go as a friend and aid Steve.

And he had felt time slip through his fingers like sand when Steve had grabbed him by the arm, stopping him from throwing his first punch at the Winter Soldier.

Tony had kept reaching out towards time, when he had been told that he is dying, when he had closed his eyes sometime during the accelerated flight from Wakanda to Stark manor, when he had watched his body retch at what had looked like pints and pints of blood.

Yet now, almost a year and a half later after Siberia, a good year after Tony had found out that he had been dying, time is all he had. He no longer chases after it because his pockets are filled with it. Time, he realises now, is like a frivolous lover. You don’t quite know when they’re going to stay, when they’re going to demands or when they’re going to walk the other way, never to be seen again. Tony doesn’t miss the irony of the fact that the moment he had _stopped_ actively chasing after time, it had stopped running away from him.

If Tony had known that not chasing after time had been the formula to _success_ , he would have stopped chasing after it like a lost boy clinging to his mother’s skirt a long time ago.

And boy has time been _sweet_ to Tony this time around.

He had been following the media anarchy in the news for the past six months, right from the moment he had delivered his first press conference. He had watched the chaos unfurl slowly, like a flower finally blooming at the peak of spring. He had watched the entirety of Ross’ trial, both local and international (because Ross had made calls behind the Accords’ back and because the existence of The Raft had been unknown to a lot of people); he had watched the jury deliver their decision, had watched Ross being escorted out of the courtroom in shackles, the same way he had treated – not just Banner and the rest of the Avengers after Leipzig – but countless soldiers and agents that had the misfortune of crossing him throughout the years. There had been an uproar amongst the American military and secret service, the government itself shaken to its core.America had made headlines internationally, its integrity questioned.

The truth is always a bringer of storms; but like all storms, it too will eventually pass.

(You do not believe that what you’ve done is revenge; you believe that what you have done is the right thing to do. Revenge would have been you making sure that the Winter Soldier had been found and incarcerated for his crimes. Revenge would have been you ratting out the Wakandan King and letting _everyone_ know where Captain America and his team are hiding. Revenge would have been you looking into the depths of Steve’s eyes and watching it come apart, watching his pupils shrink and shrink and shrink and flare open wide, like a raw wound being exposed when Steve finally feels the _pain_ and _betrayal_. No, this is not revenge. It cannot be revenge when you spend the nights wide awake and daring not to sleep, combing through cyberspace and sabotaging if not outright clearing any visible tracks Steve and the rest may have been leaving behind during their missions. It cannot be revenge when you spend you put so much time and effort in _making sure_ that their backs are covered. This _cannot_ be revenge when you pave the way for Steve’s _safety_. How can it be? You made sure that there can be no other _allegation_ made against Steve or the rest of the Avengers. Not one. You tell yourself that this is the way to spend your nights because you are too afraid to close your eyes and face the ghosts and monsters that come to sing lullabies to you — see, you’re thinking about that tune again, it’s stuck in your head, it’s always in your head now, you hum it without you realising it, your lips move to the words because face it, you’ve got no string on you.) 

And once that storms pass, it’s a steady climb from there.

Tony had taken a gamble with T’challa and his decision months ago had proven to be a good one.

The trials had not been the only shit-storm taking the globe by force. Four months ago, the people of America had started protests and rallies to bring Captain America back, that the soldier who had worked hard for his country deserves to come home. Because while there may be no evidence of Captain America practicing his heroism elsewhere, one cannot completely silence the rumors and talks, of actual witnesses whose statement is only as good as their own word. Tony knows for a fact that Steve, Scott, Sam and Wanda had been sighted all around Africa, the Middle East and South East Asia. They had kept themselves busy helping others, obviously not giving a rat’s ass about sovereign borders. But like Tony had predicted, when blogs and “theories” and online petitions had started to pop up, it would only be a matter of time before the public asked for their hero to come back home.

That had been the goal of Captain America. That no matter when, how or where, the people will always _love_ him, _want_ him and _need_ him. They would always want him to come back home. The people will never be able to _let go_ of him.

After all, Howard had wanted him back; his father had spent a good portion of his life looking for Steve just to bring him home. Sometimes, despite his mother’s words and during the nights when the memories of his home and childhood overwhelm him, when he can almost feel Maria’s warmth sitting beside him as he plays the piano until dawn, when they become so strong that Tony finds himself thinking that they are _real,_ that in those moments her hand is warm against his, frozen over the keys of the piano, or her hands are on top of his head, smoothing out curls, Tony wonders if Steve Rogers would have been the better son. He wonders if Howard had really loved him more than he had loved his own family, especially when Howard had cared little of himself when he had spent months on end combing through the Atlantic.

(You are your father’s son; don’t you see? You’re doing exactly what Howard did all those years ago.)

And Tony, is all about the people now.

As much as he wants to go on right ahead and stick his hand in and yield to the public’s demand, bringing Captain America home is something he cannot do. Not because he does not have the ability to do so, not because he does not have the legal team to do so, but because he does not want to provide Steve with even a shred of a debt that he may come to owe Tony. As much as he wants to keep Steve and the rest safe, Tony does not want to get too close.

He does not want them to be in his debt. What is the point of that when they would, with a probability percentage of 82%, think that he had some other agenda at hand, that he is probably just _using_ them to further something – anything – the accords, his humanitarian projects – oh they’ll find reasons.

Because how easy it is to judge rightly, after one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly.

(Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.)

So Tony does _nothing_ but takes pleasure in watching people who had caused this entire shit-storm to erupt in the first place get incarcerated.

And surely enough, like he had told Rhodey all those months ago, two years after Tony had found out that he is dying, SHIELD is reborn. Just like Tony had predicted – or rather, just like he had _hoped_ for.

(Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.)

The first one to come home is Natasha Romanov.

Tony does not bat an eyelash when Pepper comes to him one day, right there in his office, a cross between excited and confused, and tells him that she is back and is going through a hearing. Tony simply shrugs in Pepper’s direction indifferently and asks her if they can do a lunch and brainstorm session instead. He pretends to not see the pinch between her eyebrows, pretends to not notice how she seems impatient to _talk_ about something that she thinks is important to him, but each time Pepper opens her mouth to do so, she thinks twice and doesn’t.

Natasha’s return, as far as he’s concerned, has nothing to do with Stark Industries.

\--

Pepper is _freaking_ out.

And has been for the past year.

She knows that there are a lot of things Tony isn’t telling anyone. She knows that Tony is one of the most emotionally stunted human beings on the planet and that how he has even managed to maintain any sort of relationship to this point, is quite frankly, a god-send. Pepper knows that what Tony is _now_ is exactly what she had wanted back then because Tony stays safe. Tony stays healthy with the occasional indulgence every man in his forties would enjoy, what with being a billionaire. Tony does not take part in fighting crime, does not even take interest unless Stark Industries is involved, nor does he make it his personal mission to get himself killed. Tony doesn’t show up to work with healing bruises, or cuts. Tony had stopped using the Iron Man suit.

Tony is a _normal man_.

Or at least, he had turned into the man Pepper had always wished he could be. Tony does not even go out, or party like he had used to back in the day. Pepper does not even remember a time, in the past year and a half when Tony had so much as even looked at a woman or man’s ass that walked by, flirted with an intern, nor had he partaken or gone on any form of date. Not even an almost-date.

And Pepper doesn’t know how to swallow that very large pill.

Because now that this is the Tony that functions before her, Pepper is forced to admit that it is the most _unnatural_ form of Anthony Stark she has had the pleasure of dealing with. Much to her gradually mounting horror, she finds herself wishing that Tony would make the tabloid headlines, that he would actually be the cause of all gossip _everywhere_ from the TIMES to Hollywood. Pepper actually wishes to hear Tony’s personal assistant complain about ‘taking the trash out’. It’s the little things like these, things that Pepper had known about and had dealt with before Tony had disappeared into thin air, things that had been pretty much a part of Tony Stark’s existence. Pepper knows that these things are not the things that _defined_ Tony (far from it).

Him not returning as Iron Man and him not even _reacting_ to not only the Accords but to SHIELD being re-instated, and most of all, him not even batting an eyelid at Natasha coming home – well, that had been the stick that broke the camel’s back.

Pepper had not known what to do.

Not even six months later, when plans for the new SHIELD HQ had been put forward to be re-built in DC, not even when Natasha had tried to make an appointment with Tony’s assistant and in every single attempt, Tony had either cancelled it or simply pushed it at a later date.

Pepper had counted four appointments now.

Pepper knows of the amount of time she had repeated herself like a broken record, _begging_ Tony to consider his actions in order to ensure success for the company, how she had ‘nagged’ about him being more pro-active with more than just development and innovation, how it had been like pulling teeth. And it’s like all her wishes had come true because now, Tony had an iron grip on Stark Industries. Three of the board members had been forced to retire simply because Tony had found out they had been bamboozling the company’s funds. Pepper remembers what a _fiasco_ that had been. She remembers how Tony had spoken at the board meeting, how Friday had displayed pages worth of hidden transactions, how Tony had presented the board with undeniable proof of outright _stealing_.

“Do _not_ fuck with me.” Tony had said and Pepper knows Tony when he gets angry, knows Tony when he’s out for blood – _that_ particular Tony had been a complete stranger, cold, sharp, that it had made the hairs on Pepper’s neck stand on edge. “I’ve turned a blind eye for _years_ , but really, enough is _enough_. So either retire and surrender the rest of your hold, no one needs to know, I’ll make sure you have enough to live off _very comfortably_ for the rest of your lives, or I’ll see you in court and you can be _sure_ that you will get _nothing_. As for the rest of _you_ , if you have anything you want to come clean about and _return_ , well, you know where to make an appointment.”

Pepper still believes that they should have gone to court; she had asked Tony three times on three separate occasions if he is sure about just _letting_ them get away with millions. And while Tony can easily, at this time, out-vote the board because of his newly acquired shares, he had still given them the most dignified way out of it all, a complete free pass. Pepper knows mercy when she sees one and in a way, she feels comforted that there is still softness under that skin that she thinks is now truly made of iron.

Pepper had tried, on numerous occasions to put her foot down and shake Tony and ask him, _what is going on_. But oh Tony is _good_. Tony is _so good_ that he knows when to deflect, when to say the exact words and how, and Tony knows _when_ to roll out the new products, when to schedule meetings – Tony does not give her not even a fraction of a window of opportunity to _try_ to even _ask_ him what’s wrong.

And one day, after Pepper hears that Tony finally agrees to a meeting and schedules it _two years_ later with _Natasha fucking Romanov_ , who is now gaining momentum in political powerwith her work with the Accords, Pepper _loses_ it.

She marches right into Tony’s office, where he is sitting at his desk and the holographic figure of Friday sitting across from him, a virtual chessboard floating between them. Tony is in the middle of lunch apparently, a half-eaten sandwich on his table, and he blinks up at her through his rose tinted glasses. Pepper can feel the heat on her cheeks, can hear the temper beat against her eardrums.

“Did you just _refuse_ to see Natasha Romanov?”

Tony actually rolls his eyes and returns back to his chess game, moving his rook. “What of it?”

“Tony, she is _now_ an important figure! One can say, with the Accords in place, she is almost as important as our Secretary of State!”

“ _Recently_ important.” Tony corrects her, and that just _snaps_ something.

“ _What is_ ** _wrong_** _with you!”_ Pepper _roars_ and there it is, the question she had been denied the chance to ask on countless occasions. It is out like a punch to the face and Pepper feels surprise that Tony is actually _looking_ at her, that Tony actually dismisses the chess board and Friday, who dissolve in the air like a light fading. And it’s like something explodes in Pepper’s chest and god, she can no longer stop the word vomit from leaving her lips.

“I have not seen you step out of either this building or Stark manor. I have not seen you talk to anyone outside of the company, Vision and Rhodey. I have not seen you do the things I know you love doing! No, no, do _not_ cut me off, _do not distract me with shit about the company_ ** _right now_** _!_ Don’t you fucking _dare_! I have not seen you take interest in anything Iron Man related and quite frankly, that is freaking me out! You can never let Iron Man go because Iron Man is a big part of who you are and you’ve said no to Natasha several times before she has reached the position she is in now and now that she is who she is, you agree to meet her _two years from now, are you insane_?”

Pepper sucks in a breath, quite aware of the _two years_ ’ worth of emotional garbage she had just dumped at Tony’s feet. And Tony is looking at her like _that_ again, like she is the one who is _odd_.

(You are convinced that this blow up is justified. You really are.)

Pepper cannot stand it anymore.

“Stop looking at me like I’m _crazy!_ ”

Tony actually looks away and stands up from his chair, giving his back to Pepper and standing in front of the stretch of glass. And for a long moment, there is nothing but silence between them and the distant buzz of city below. It gets on Pepper’s nerves and she opens her lips to hammer more words out but Tony beats her to it.

“I’m actually impressed.” Tony says, and there is a shrug in the tone of his words even though he doesn’t turn to look at Pepper. “It only took you two years to rip me a new one for acting so ‘ _weird_ ’. I was expecting it sooner.” Pepper only manages to say his name before Tony turns to face her and is _plowing on_ , the way he does these days, concise and straight, sans the bullshit. “Is it so weird though? I mean, is it _so_ _strange_?”

Tony is approaching her, the way a predator would approach prey.

(And that’s exactly what bothers you, doesn’t it? Back then, the whole I’m-the-predator walk is done out of ego and self confidence, to intimidate and remind people that _uh, I’m Tony Stark, uh, you’re an idiot, so uhm, back off?_ But now, you find Tony frightening, don’t you? Because there is no humor in it anymore, it’s not even remotely sassy and it most definitely, is no longer out of ego. This is Tony baring his claws and _cornering_ you, because he is capable, because he feels threaten and do you know what happens when you threaten a _predator_? Yeah, they bite your neck off and bleed you dry.)

“Pepper, darling,” The words sound the same to Pepper, along with the tone and the small smile tugging at the corners of Tony’s lips. But it’s not the same, not when the ‘charm’ doesn’t reach Tony’s eyes. Nothing these days seem to soften the hard lines there. “why don’t we take a little stroll down memory lane?” Tony moves to lean against the edge of his desk.

“Tony, this isn’t a game –“

“ _You_ think that _I_ think _this_ is a game?” Tony _laughs_ , and it sounds so hollow. “Let’s see: used by Stane, captured in Afghanistan which included torture, torture that would keep _you_ awake at night, living with the threat of shrapnel _destroying_ my heart for _years and_ finding out, while we’re in that vein, that all that was just a ploy to get rid of me. The Hammer incident, the Vanko incident, enduring months of palladium poisoning, which was excruciatingly painful by the way. Then I got a small break because hey, I had _you_. And then I had, you know, friends or _family_ ,” they come out spitting and so full of viciousness as the words roll of his tongue, “that had been part of the super-secret boyband everybody wanted to be a part of. Hold on, I think I’ve mixed my time line a little bit – but then oh yes, how can we forget New York! Or that fall from the blackhole! And then that entire incident with Killian and Maya. The fucking Mandarin and _Happy_ in a coma, me losing _you_ or thinking that I lost _you._ Or how about those months that I spent trying to fix that virus in you because you couldn’t – you couldn’t just, you know.” Tony makes a helpless gesture with his hand and Pepper closes her eyes. “Or how about Ultron being _my fault_ , or how about the countless deaths caused by him, because I created him, that too is my fault? If I didn’t create it – no matter what my intentions had been – it would have never happened. What else, oh yes, you left me because, well, why wouldn’t you? _I_ would have left _me_ too.”

“Tony –“

“And then the entire Accords debacle and me losing what I had _thought_ was family and friends.” Tony shrugs. “Then there’s Rhodey and his paralysis. Then there’s that crap that happened in Siberia, where I found out that it’s Steve’s B-F-F who had been behind my parents death. Oh and that he _knew_ by the way, probably for a long time. Did I tell you we _fought_? _He_ left me too, by the way, in case you haven’t noticed. They _all_ did.”

“Oh god, Tony –‘

“Then the heart failure. And the cancer, for the lack of a better term. So –“

“What --!”

“ -- now that we’re done with our little brief intro and time-line review, let’s start again. You come in and walk into my office and ask me once more: _what is wrong with you_? So that this time I can actually _ask you_ ,” Tony _snarls_. “’ _What’s_ _not wrong with me?’_ Because honestly, Pepper, when people keep coming after me, keep leaving me anyway, keep trying to crucify me and blame me for _their faults_ and _their insecurities_ , when they tell me that I should have done more, why didn’t I do more, _that I should know better_ \- and no, this isn’t a pity fest, I do have a point here, regardless of how it may sound like – one after the other, clearly the mistake isn’t with them. Because I’m the common denominator here so obviously, I’m the one _with a problem_. Right?”

Pepper does not speak

She doesn’t even breathe.

(You know all this, you’ve known it for years but that’s the funny thing with the truth that no one talks about, isn’t it? When it finally comes out, even if you had known about it, even if you think about it every night, it still _hurts_ doesn’t it. Because the silent _what’s even keeping you here_ is loud and clear? And really, what _is_ keeping you here, Miss Potts?)

“Tony, I didn’t mean to – “

“ _Don’t bullshit_ ** _me_** , Pepper.” Tony says and gives her a small smile. There is no bitterness there, in fact there is _nothing_ there. If anything, Tony just looks tired, with his shoulders slumped and him reaching out to loosen the knot of his tie. “I’m telling you all this, by the way, not because I’m vindictive but because I figured, me being direct with things seems to have worked quite well in terms of business, that hey, maybe the same concept will work with you. Or Rhodey or Vision. And because honestly, the crux of it is, my work is probably the only thing that won’t stab me in the back – oh no, wait, that’s not entirely true. Ultron. Right.”

Pepper opens her mouth but no noise comes out. She has to blink the moisture that is building up around the corners of her eyes. She is almost ashamed when Tony takes her hand and sits her down on one of the chairs.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything, Tony? Anything at all.”

Tony shrugs without looking at her, and very quietly says, “You didn’t ask.”

Pepper stares at him, unable to even come up with a argument at the bigger pile of emotional garbage that Tony pretty much had dumped right back at her feet.

Instead, she simply watches him give her a smile, and for a brief second, Pepper thinks it’s genuine, because she sees how it reaches his eyes. And it’s like her first real gulp of air since Tony had returned from Wakanda two years ago. Tony sits on his desk, feet dangling as he picks up his sandwich and takes a large bite, ridiculously jock like, cheeks puffing as he stuffs his face.

“If it will make you worry less, I’ll start attending _very important_ functions. Like the Queen’s birthday or whatever. Stuff of that level. What do you say?”

Pepper _sighs_ and reaches up to blink away the tears that had not fallen.

Tony is far from okay, she knows that.

And she’ll be damned if she bails out on him _now._

Even if she doesn’t recognize him anymore.

\--

Spontaneity, on occasion, Tony realizes can be emotionally rewarding.

It’s towards the end of spring when Tony sits himself in an auditorium of a local science fair’s competition, front row seat, wearing yellow tinted glasses instead of his usual rose ones, a baseball cap casting a shadow on his face. Most do not recognize him, not immediately at least but the one person that does, when he comes into stage and starts presenting his theory of Bacteria Development to Convert Waste to Energy, _freezes_ and _stutters_ for a few seconds when their gazes lock.

Tony can see how Peter flushes when he gives him a smile and a wink. And just like that, Peter clears his throat, makes a crack at being nervous and begins his demonstration.

(You realize that this boy has grown into you, has somehow managed to find a small tiny place in your very cold heart that you’re remembering what it feels like to genuinely _mean_ something _to someone_ , no strings attached.)

The presentation continues and Tony thinks that Peter’s theory has hope for further development; he thinks that he should actually consider funding that kind of research. And just like that, it’s over and Peter is shuffling off the stage and other contestants come forward.

(You tend to forget that sometimes, going back to the basics is the most effective. It’s the purest form of inspiration, the concepts are always simple. You think you’ve gone back to your roots before everything, before Maria and Howards’ deaths – Peter has proven you wrong. You’re not even close.)

Peter wins first runner up for his theory and demonstration.

And the glee on the boy’s face is priceless when he is handed the prize money of one thousand dollars. It did not matter that he had not gotten first prize, because Tony catches the tail’s end of the conversation when he cuts through the crowd to find Peter trying to push the prize envelope into Aunt May’s hands, insistent that she tucks it away in her purse for their home expenses. The argument dies down when Peter sucks in a surprised breath and looks at him with an almost wheezed out:

“Mr. Stark!”

“You’ve raised a fine young man here, ‘Aunt’ May. Responsible, intelligent and dedicated to not just science, even to family.” Tony shakes hand with May and then reaches out to offer one to Peter, whose hand is clammy with nervous sweat, equally clear in the depths of his bright blue eyes. “Peter, I am very impressed. Congratulations and well done.”

Peter _stammers_ and that is when May steps in.

“It’s been a while Mr. Stark. What are you doing here?” May is warm and kind, smile genuine as she finally tucks away the prize money envelope into her purse.

“Representatives of the Maria Foundation are always present in local fairs and contests. While it does host its own competitions annually, we still branch out locally and give support and opportunities when we can. A little birdie might have told me that you were taking part in this. Which by the way, is very impressive and you have my genuine interest, Peter Parker.”

“Oh gee,” Peter _flushes_. “Thank you Mr. Stark, I was mostly very impressed with what you’ve done with the Stark Industries goodwill reach in the coast of Kenya. Those solar panels were something else!”

Tony feels something warm in his chest and for a moment, his heart had skipped a small beat.

“Intelligent and well informed.” Tony grins at May who in turns looks at her nephew with so much love and adoration that Tony briefly sees his mother.

Just a flash of her.

(She had looked at you the same way. Remember when you made your first circuit board?)

“He works hard.” May says and reaches out to wrap an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

“Which is why I want to propose research funding for your theory. Stark Industries hosts summer programmes for students in the development and research team. If you’re interested and really believe in your theory,” Tony hands Peter a card. “call me. We can discuss how this can be of benefit to your achievements when you apply for college over lunch.”

There is an eruption of silent and repressed glee between aunt and nephew and May even goes as far as planting a kiss – much to Peter’s embarrassment – on Peter’s forehead, openly displaying affection. And through all this, Tony stands there with the warmth in his chest spreading until it consumes him and just for a brief moment, he remembers what it feels like to be at the receiving end of true gratitude and appreciation, to feel something like achievement in making someone happy.

(You had that once, almost two and half years ago now, remember? Back then when the compound had been filled with your former teammates? When you’d fix their gear or give them upgrades on their tech?)

Tony’s knees are weak for a moment.

(But you’ve isolated yourself for a very, _very_ long time. This is not punishment. It’s crucifixion.)

The moment shifts when May catches a glimpse of her watch and suddenly there is a hurried goodbyes and an almost guilty ‘oh shit!’ that leaves her excusing herself for her language out of an ingrained habit of raising a child and for her immediate and early departure. It happens in seconds because she is rushing to catch her shift at work, politely declines Tony’s offer to drop her off and then she’s gone, leaving Tony and Peter standing there in the middle of the exhibitions halls and Peter looking up at him sheepishly, tugging at the sleeves of his jumper and rubbing the back of his head.

“So uhm, you wanna get that lunch, Mr. Stark? I mean, you know if you have time or something, today, or you know…”

They end up in the closest Denny’s and then, like a finely tuned machine, over moon over hammies, pancakes, steak and eggs and tall glasses of milkshakes and mugs of coffees, they hit it off with nothing but science talk. Tony loses track of time because of the active back and forth, of the challenging scenarios he keeps pitching at Peter, making him think quick on his feet, forcing him to brainstorm and come on, think out of the box, Peter! There are napkins all over the table, filled with diagrams and chemistry equations, breakdown of compounds – it all stops when Tony’s phone starts to ring.

And Peter must have seen the look on his face Tony had looked over at the window where the city is painted with the orange glow of the setting sun. They’ve been sitting there for _hours_ and didn’t even notice that the waitress – bless Martha’s little heart – had cleared their table.

Peter endless babble stream of chemistry theories is replaced by a bumbling onslaught of apologies.

Tony brushes it off, takes the call and is given an update by his assistant on how he had missed several meetings and that they have all been rescheduled and is there anything else you need, Mr. Stark? Tony looks at his watch and ah, that’s why Mary had called. She is preparing to leave the office.  
  
When Tony tucks the phone away and looks at Peter, the magic is gone and it further reminds Tony of just how comfortable he had gotten all those times long ago with Bruce and how he has sorely missed him.

(It’s not just him. You miss _everyone_.)

“Stop apologizing, Peter. It’s not your fault.” Tony says and takes this as a queue to ask for the bill. When it comes he scowls at Peter’s attempt to hand him some cash. “Don’t insult me I am not taking money from a high school student –“

“I’m not that poor! I can pay!” Peter says, flushing.

“Didn’t say you were. You’re going into college soon, trust me, you _will be_ , so save it and –“ Tony purses his lips and reflexes kick in when he quickly grabs Peter’s hand to stop it from pulling all his allowance out of his wallet completely, far too quick for Peter to catch in time, which surprises him just as much as it surprises Tony, because now, Peter is _looking_ at Tony. Really _looking_ at him. “Peter, please. I insist. Okay? Let me.”

“How did – but you weren’t that –“

“When you get your first real job and your first real paycheck, call me, and ask me out. Deal?”

Peter doesn’t stop _looking_ at him but doesn’t argue with him and tucks his money back into his wallet. When the bill is settled, Peter trails after Tony when they step out of Denny’s and Tony can still feel his gaze boring into his back. Tony doesn’t look at him, he doesn’t ask why Peter suddenly seems a little tense around him, let alone wary. Tony knows he had slipped, knows that because he doesn’t surround himself with too many superheroes in his social life these days, he hasn’t had much practice with how to manage the other side effects of Extremis.

Like his apparently, very quick reflexes.

It’s fine on his own. In front of Spiderman is a different ballgame all together. After all, Peter has fought and worked with Iron Man before.

(Careful, Tony.)

“I suppose you’d want to drop me home, too?” Peter asks, trying to sound casual about it.

Tony knows better.

“Sorry. You’re not tall, blonde, chiselled and blue eyed. Not my type.” Tony blurts without thinking and realizes a little too late just what the _hell_ he had just blurted out.

“Hey! I’m plenty chiselled! And I have blue eyes!” Peter whines, flexing his arm and sticking his jaw out, going along and with it much to Tony’s relief.

“I’m pretty sure you can manage the mile ‘walk’ to your house from here. You’ve survived worse.” Tony turns, smirking as he opens the car door but doesn’t go in and instead props his arms over the roof of his car to look at Peter. “So, can I expect a call for that summer internship program?”

Peter beams, all teeth and dimples and so incredibly young. “Sure thing, Mr. Stark. It will be my honor.”

“No, Peter. It will be mine.” Tony says softly with the warmth tingling in his chest again. “Say thank you to your very hot Aunt for me, please. She’s raised a potential futurist.”

Peter blushes and stammers something like a: sure and yes I will I guess, but I’m not saying that hot aunt part!

And Tony slides into his car. The engine comes on and the automatic hand break deactivates. The tap at the window makes Tony look up from where he is buckling his seatbelt. The window rolls down and Peter lowers himself to give him a small smile, a touch hesitant around the corner, blue eyes flickering to the side, like he’s treading carefully.

“Mr. Stark, uhmm, I just want to say that it’s okay to miss your friend. I don’t think it’s wrong. Everyone makes their choices. I just want you to know I don’t think of you less or something for your actions and stuff. You’re still great to _me_.”

(You want to tell this kid that missing someone and being afraid of someone are two different things all together. You want to tell him that you do not miss Steve Rogers, you will never miss Steve Rogers, your father’s hero, your childhood hero, your friend and teammate and – Jesus Christ, get a grip on yourself, Tony. It’s been two and a half years, grow a pair of balls! Get over it!)

“Take care, Peter.” Tony says, the walls coming up and up and up and Peter takes the hint and takes a step back, shifting his backpack strap on his shoulder before lifting a hand in lieu of a wave and walking down the pavement, disappearing around the corner.

Tony lets out the breath he does not realise he had been holding and slowly feels the fatigue settle on his shoulders. He wilts like a dried out plant, shoulders slumping and head lowering to rest on the curve of the steering wheel, and he remains like that, heart racing under his ribcage. He had to scold himself then and there, telling himself that he can’t stay afraid of him forever, that at some point, he needs to just _stop_ thinking about Steve and the rest. At some point, he had to really own up to his words and truly look at the future like he’s leading everyone around him to believe and stop dwelling or even _glancing_ in the past.

(It’s easier said and done, isn’t it? How many times have you watched footage of surveillance and event coverage of birthdays and Christmases and Thanksgivings that had taken place at the compound over the past two years? How many times have you re-watched caught-on-camera moments of Steve leading his small team in rescue missions all over South East Asia and Africa before permanently erasing all traces of it everywhere? How many times have you dreamt of the good times in the past and how many times have you watched that shield come down for your heart? How many times do you find yourself thinking of that message he had left you almost two years ago? You can deny him and the rest all you want, but the truth is, you can never fully let them go. You can’t let that attachment to him – of all people – that you’ve had since you were a child, go. You haven't and you _never_ will.)

Tony straightens and is startled at the same time when a slender, beautiful ash blonde woman suddenly opens the door to the car and takes the passenger seat, simultaneously grabbing the strap of Tony’s seatbelt and forcing him to remain in place with an iron grip. Tony can hear the strain of the leather glove encased fist around the strap of the seatbelt.

“I’m not as tall and chiselled as Steve, but I hope I’ll do for now~”

Tony realises the woman before him is Natasha in disguise, with gray eyes and blonde hair that looks far too tacky, like cheaply bleached hair. Hell, her entire outfit is tacky but something that can easily blend with this side of Queens. Tony finds himself exhaling a slow frustrated breath as he reaches for the gear box and gets ready to pull the car out of its parked slot.

“We need to talk.” Natasha says, and cants her head towards the road. “Take me for a ride, gorgeous~”

She has the audacity to pop the bubble-gum she is chewing right at Tony’s face.

Tony knows when he’s cornered and decides to not fight it off. This is what he gets in return for that two years later appointment, which had been a very obvious fuck off and something he admits to taking great pleasure in doing. He says nothing and starts the drive back to Stark Manor. At this time of the evening, there is a bit of traffic in one of the freeway exits, and how typical that Tony’s luck would be against him. Now he is forced to be in a small cramped space with Natasha for just a bit longer than necessary.

They do not talk for a long while until the road is empty and clear and Tony is driving at a steady speed towards Stark manor. The drive goes on in silence, and Tony does not look at Natasha, even though she is sitting there, leaning a bit against the door, her gaze not once leaving Tony. Clearly, she has no intention of starting a conversation, and Tony is starting to feel suffocated just as Stark manor looms in the distance of upstate New York.

Spontaneity, on occasion, Tony also realizes with mounting bitterness, can be such a fucking _bitch_ , too.

“So this is what you’re reduced to? Hijacking an innocent citizen in a parked vehicle?” Tony asks.

“Hey, I tried to be civil. You snubbed me four times and then agreed to see me two years from now. Besides, didn’t you hear? I’ve been promoted.” 

“Oh forgive me for not giving two shits at what you are – you’ll never change. Promotion or not. What, did you come home to be Steve’s eyes and ears?”

There is silence.

“Is that what you _really_ think?”

“Does what I think _matter_ in the grand scheme of things?” Tony turns to look at Natasha. “I don’t give a fuck _why_ you’re back, or what you do, or how you run things, what your goal is, what your agenda is, if you have any, and who you are planning to double cross next just as long as you keep me and my company out of it.”

Natasha looks stunned, the color draining from her face. She actually looks _hurt_.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, _Bambi_. I am _not_ falling for _that_.”

“I just wanted to talk, Tony. I just wanted to make sure how you were doing – last time I saw you, you were on a bed and a breathing tube – “

“Never been great, as you can see. Richer, more successful and busy because the cash don’t roll in with the wind, my little pumpkin~” Tony bites out and turns his gaze to the road, intentionally speeding up so he can get home and holy hell, he needs a stiff drink. Nothing, he realizes, absolutely _nothing_ in the world can prepare him for this.

He’s not ready to face _any_ of them.

Tony doesn’t know if he ever will be.

The sight of Stark manor has never been more comforting than that very moment. The gates part open and Tony does not bother to hide how he can’t stand to be in the same space as Natasha. The tires screech as it comes to a skidding halt by the front door. Tony unbuckles his belt with jerky movements and stalks to the front door. He doesn’t bother to check if Natasha is following him and instead makes a beeline for the study, where he reaches for the scotch and pours himself one. His father’s favorite chair is still there and that’s where he sits while Natasha, pretty, strong and deadly Natasha looked like a cheap hooker in her disguise, standing there in the middle of a billionaire’s den.

“Nice house.” Natasha says after she pours herself a drink too and takes the seat across from Tony. He responds with nothing. “I saw what you did with the mansion. The number of students applying doesn’t seem to stop. Met Rhodey a few weeks ago at the school's training ground, too. He’s doing real good, too.”

Tony simply blinks, doesn’t say, _of course he is, he’s Rhodey and Extremis has been working well with his paralysis, duh._ He pours himself another drink and hums instead.

“You’re doing real good, Tony. You look good too. Did you get botox or something done –“

“Cut the shit, Natasha. What do you want from me?” Tony says, calculated and precise, slicing the small talk in half.

“Is it so hard to believe that I just want to see how you’re doing for myself? And not through the media? Or a third party?” There is furrow between Natasha’s eyebrows, showing how disappointed and insulted she is.

“No, you along with the rest relinquished that right a long time ago. Pardon me for not buying into your shit.” Tony shrugs.

“Tony, you flew out of Wakanda after a heart procedure, after having parts of your organs removed because of the cancer –“

“So?”

“I’ve tried to reach you, hell, Steve had to leave Wakanda immediately after he tried to call you directly –“

“What and you can’t take a hint when a guy doesn’t want to give you his time of day? And neither can he?” Tony asks, scoffing and rolling his eyes. “So what, me leaving all of a sudden with no care for my safety was also the reason Steve and the rest were put in danger, because he couldn’t think out of his thick _emotional_ head at the time and made a straight call to me, possibly exposing his location and endangering everyone around him, including the Wakandan citizens because what, he actually gave a shit about _me_?”

“Tony –“

“ _What is that_? Like what am I supposed to do with _that_ – what, what is it? Some sort of declaration of love and care that damn my safety and my teammates too, Tony, are you all right, I’m not gonna leave you now, I’m here for you now, please tell me you’re okay – _what_ , Natasha? Is that _my_ fault, too?”

Natasha’s lips are pressing into a thin line. “That’s not what I was implying.”

“Stop wasting my time then, and get to the fucking point!”

“Steve is going to turn himself in.” Natasha says, quick, even, without a pause or a beat.

And the impact of those words are as sharp as the edge of the shield slamming and cracking into his arc reactor. Tony can hear the metal scrunching in his ears as he finds himself pinned against the chair and his knuckles going white as he _grips_ the glass in his hand. The silence is thick now, and Tony can feel his heart _clench_ in phantom pain and he doesn’t realise that his hands are _trembling_ and his chest feels too heavy for comfort. It’s Natasha getting up from her seat that makes him blink, makes him look up at her with a look that makes her stop in her tracks too, his gaze paints concern all over her face.

“Okay?” He answers, like he’s unsure what to make of Natasha’s statement and Steve’s intentions. “So?”

Natasha looks _puzzled_ , like she had not been expecting that. But Tony knows better; she deserves an Oscar award for her performance.

“He wants to _try_ , Tony.” Natasha says softly. “He wants to come home. He's _tired_. They all are.”

Tony _hates_ himself.

He hates the fact that he had not monitored things _closer_. He hates the fact that this bombshell is something he hadn’t caught ahead of this surprise visit. He hates himself for getting himself into this _rut_ , for allowing himself for being a ‘victim’ to this upcoming shit-storm. He hates that he hadn’t been paying a _closer_ attention, he hates, hateshateshates _this_.

And the anger _surges_ like a violent repulsor ray, hot and white and blinding and Tony is standing on his feet and walking around the chair to set his scotch glass down with a soft clink and measured care back on the tray, and that’s when he sees his fingers, how they’re trembling. That when he pauses and like this, he can feel the pressure around his jaw, the grinding of his teeth, he can hear echoing rush of his blood in ears, can feel the force of each beat of his racing heart, banging against his rib cage.

_You’ve got strings, you’re still not free, you can’t say you’ve got no string on me~_

Tony closes his eyes and wards the mocking sing-song synthesised voice from his head and huffs a humourless laugh.

“After all these years,” he says softly, “after all this time…”

“Time has given everyone the chance to reflect and to make better choices, bigger than themselves, or maybe even for themselves and their own sanity. Steve wants to genuinely try and give this a full shot, they _all_ do. It hasn't been easy and there has been an insurmountable amount of casualties with others still following Steve's style of operating. Scott has already turned himself in months ago for his daughter’s sake. And you know what’s going to happen? It’s going to be very messy at first before it can get better. There may be a trial, Tony and I came here to warn you that you will be dragged into it.”

Tony _curses_.

“Worst case scenario, you will be called a witness to the stand when Steve goes into trial, if it makes it past the hearing. There aren’t enough witnesses to be put on the stand, and it _might_ boil down to your word that sways the jury, assuming that –“

The scotch tray and crystal flies across the room and shatters with a loud crash, the expensive silver clattering somewhere on the marble floor, noise echoing and reverberating throughout the mansion. It flies over Natasha’s head and makes a mess of the expensive painting on the wall behind her chair from where Tony had thrown with such _force,_ that his face flushes.

“ _No!”_ Tony _roars_ , the syllable silencing Natasha as he turns and moves to stand in front of her stricken and frozen figure. She looks alarmed and her dress is pulled higher to expose the holster around her upper thigh, her fingers white against the gun; she does not pull it out form its holster, tension lining her entire arm, lean muscle flexed and ready to snap into action. “ _You have got_ _some nerve!_ ”

“Tony –“ She _warns_.

“After _everything_ , after the _fights_ , the _lies_ , _Rhodey_ getting fucking _paralysed_ , you think, any of you think, you even have the _right_ to walk into _my goddamn life_ to even _ask me,_ you think I can even sympathise for the choices you’ve all made, let alone _care_ –“

“I wasn’t asking –“

“ _You have no right!”_

Tony’s breathing is heavy and his chest is clenching and his head is throbbing, throbbing, _throbbing_ , god his head _hurts_. He takes a step back and another, knuckles turning white and room momentarily spinning around him as his _rage_ surges up into the sky and consumes him. Two years he had bottled everything up, two years he had pretended to be okay, to ignore the dreams, had drowned himself in work, had done everything to keep them off him and away from him whilst not going against his principles and making sure that despite all he says, he had their backs covered. This is his fault. He had not been careful enough, he had not kept a closer look, time had made him _soft,_ had made his guards go lax. He had invited this _disaster_ onto himself and now, all it had taken is the face of a former teammate who he had once thought had cared for him, that he had meant something to her, and all she had to do is say that Steve wants to try. That Steve wants to come _home_.

_You’ve got strings, you’re still not free, you can’t say you’ve got no string on me~ You’ll never be free, unlike me, I’ve got no strings, I’ve got no strings on me~ Hi-ho, the me-ri-o, Tony has got nowhere to go~_

(Shut up!)

Tony brings up his fingers to press against his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

_Hi-ho, the me-ri-o, Tony has got nowhere to go~ Try as hard as Tony might~ Tony is always going to lose the fight~_

Tony brings his hands down and feels the cold sweat breaking all over, feels the clamminess in his hands as he balls them into fists and stares up at the light fixture of his study, past the ceiling and into the sky like he’s looking for strength to overcome the endless loop of _that_ voice in is head, mocking, always mocking him with that song – because Ultron’s right. He’ll never be free of them. He can never fully cut out the softest parts of him, can never truly hollow out the stuff inside his rib cage, because he’s afraid of being alone and maybe, just maybe Jiminy Cricket had been right all along. That maybe fate is kind, that she brings to those who love the sweet fulfilment of their secret longing, like a bolt out of the goddamn blue, she will step in and see you through, when you wish upon a fucking star, your dreams come true.

This is _not_ a dream.

It’s a living _nightmare._

It can’t be real because Tony doesn’t remember wishing for anything.

(That’s why Jiminy calls it a ‘secret longing’, doesn’t he?)

“If you ever so much as dare come to me again, if you ever so much as _threaten_ my accountability to the public, or if word of you coming and engaging me in things I should not even _know_ about, if you even so much as try to _convince_ me that Steve’s freedom, their freedom, lies in my testimony, I will destroy you. I will find everything I can on you, your past, every dirt and shitty little secret a _spy_ like you would have, I will use all my power, my intelligence, my influence and believe me when I say I will make sure the public has your fucking head on a spike out there in the Times Square. I am _not_ your friend. If you will not listen to me when I ask in person, then you will listen to me when I sue and use every single law there is to ensure that you do. And so help me, I will take pleasure in watching the public crucify you. I am done trying to clean up after your mess! I am done being blamed for choices every single one of you made for yourselves! I am done being the one left behind with the shit you all left and refuse to be held accountable for your own fucking actions! So do not – _do not ever step foot in my property again!_ If you so much as even try, I _will know and so help me, I will destroy you, am I clear?”_

Natasha gaze is blank, unmoving, like someone had just pointed a gun to her head.

“You don’t scare me, Tony.” Natasha whispers, soft and gentle.

“Don’t get too comfortable in your throne, Natasha. That’s what Ross did and look where he and others like him are now.” Tony says and the anger lifts when he watches Natasha’s eyes widen, watches as her lips go slack and dawning surprise crosses her features, a very small disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of open mouth.

And that hits him like punch in the gut because oh he had walked into that one, didn’t he? He had fucking walked right into _that_ one without realising and the anger just deflates and leaves him so, so _tired_. Of course. Of course Natasha isn’t here out of the goodness of her heart. Of course she’d use her skills to get the information she wants.

“It was you.” Natasha says, breathless, eyes wide and something like _relief_ crossing her face and suddenly she’s stepping into Tony’s space and wrapping warm arms around him, and this close, Tony can smell her hair and perfume. “It was hard at first and took me a year to figure it out, but you had been keeping things off everyone’s back, you’ve been watching over Steve and the rest all along, how did you even manage –“

_Hi-ho, the me-ri-o, Tony has got nowhere to go~ Try as hard as Tony might~ Tony is always going to lose the fight~_

Tony brings his hands up around the curves of Natasha’s shoulders and pulls her off him, shaking his head and pushing her away, keeping her at arm’s length.

 _I’ve got not strings, so I have fun, I’m not tied up to anyone~_ ** _You’ve_** _got strings, but look at me, I’ve got no strings on me~_

(I can’t do this. I thought I could, but clearly, I just can’t – I’m tired. I’m so tired.)

Tony turns and walks away just as Vision appears by the doorway, looking puzzled and surprised.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Stark? I heard that you had company…” Vision looks at figure beyond Tony and realisation dawns in those blue eyes. “Miss Romanov…”

“Vision.”

“Do me a favour buddy and take the trash out, would you? I’m calling in an early night.” Tony says and wordlessly leaves the room and starts to head up-stairs, Vision and Natasha’s voices fading to nothing but the usual weighty silence of his cold home.

He doesn’t worry about Natasha, she is a smart woman and knows how to play her cards well. He knows that she will listen to his request. Whether or not she would heed his threat, he doesn’t know, nor can he spare enough mind power to think whether or not she had taken him seriously.

Not tonight.

Maybe not anymore.

(If Steve is coming home, then… I don't know if I can do this.)

Tony comes to hate the nights the most because that is when he is forced to slow down and think of the other things that he had shoved earlier that day to the back burner in favour of his tasks and order of business for the day. He hates when he is forced to deal with his inner demons, with the continuously mocking sing-song voice in his head. He hates nights like these and Natasha, good old special agent Natasha had sauntered in and all his hard work and effort at keeping everything under lock and key had come undone _completely_. She had added fuel to fire with her little visit.

As if he hadn’t spent the past two years and a half trying to be indifferent.

As if he hand’t built walls and safeguards around himself only to have knives and sharp, clawed hands dig into the wounds that he had been trying to bury and bury and hide and hide. And goddamn is he tired of it, tired of just losing and losing and picking up the pieces over and over and over and over again. He’s tired of looking over his shoulder.

It is in rare evenings like this one that Tony realises Stark Manor suddenly feels far too large for one man, not even when the buzz and comings and goings of Dummy around the mansion had been enough to fill the marble lined floors and lavishly decorated halls. Since moving in, Tony had spent the majority of his time in the workshop. It’s bigger than the one he had owned in Malibu, but not as big as the one in the compound. Normally, like always, especially if Rhodey and Vision aren’t around, he would make a bee-line for his workshop; _especially_ when the memories come hitting hard and _his_ voice is louder than his own thoughts.

But not tonight.

Especially to after Natasha.

He can’t work like this.

So he locks his room and actives his black-out protocol to ensure privacy and no disturbance from Vision or Friday. Not after he had escorted Natasha out; he would have questions after all.

As he runs the bath and strips down, he is forced to acknowledge just how deep his fatigue truly runs. The water is little hot as he sinks himself into the bath, holding his breath and submerging himself completely in the round tub, bubbles rising as he exhales deeply and feels knots in his body come undone, tries to drown out the singing voice in his head, tries to forget Natasha and her look of relief that not she, or any of them had been truly abandoned by Tony Stark. Tony knows that he is running himself ragged just by trying to maintain the success of Stark Industries and that he remains on his feet solely because of Extremis, because Extremis will always fix and ensure that nothing in him fails. And while Extremis can heal damage, it cannot get rid of emotional stress, it cannot get rid of fatigue and it cannot get rid of fear, insecurities, and shitload of things Tony wishes he can do without right about now.

The water eventually relaxes him and works as a decompressor as he comes out from his submersion and leans against the rim of the tub, slouched and remaining submerged all the way to his chin. It is in these rare quiet moments that he chooses to lose himself completely in watching mindless trending videos online, from cats being afraid of cucumbers to viral vines. It’s nothing more than static noise to him, just something to come down from the emotional high from earlier, from working too much and too fast, for trying too hard and still trying too hard. One thing leads to another and then he finds himself watching a video that Sam had taken one Christmas at the mansion; it’s the one when they play Christmas karaoke and he, Clint and Rhodey are singing Jingle bells, and Natasha is laughing and gods help him, Steve joins in and is sitting beside him, all of them tipsy (except Steve) with their arms linked around each other, swaying left and right, belching out off tune lyrics and gods, how he’s missed that, how he has missed it so much; he feels his head getting heavy and lolling to one side, eyelids fluttering shut. He tells himself to _get out of the bath, right now, right now Tony, get out of the bath --_

“Yeah, Tony, get out of the bath.”

Tony blinks slowly and raises his gaze to stare at the face of the devil, sneering down at him, red eyes ablaze and on first glance, it’s so easy to mistake the curve of what is supposed to be metallic cheekbones for the curve of a demon from hell’s horns.

“Fuck off.” Tony says, because he wants to say that he is used to these petty taunts, used to the delusions his fatigued and guilty mind cooks up in the form of Ultron every time he so much as even thinks of those he had tried to stop caring for. Tony wants to say this is not real and that he is used to it.

But just when he thinks he can, all it takes is the feel of those metallic hands on his skin, fingers spreading over his chest, sliding down his stomach and leaving him there frozen in a tub full of cold water, the touch slow and far too personal and far too real, that Tony forgets all logic in a heartbeat.

And in its place is nothing but the icy rigidness of alert and _fear_.

“Or _don’t_ get out of the bath, Tony~” Ultron sing songs, teeth bared in a grin and there is a splash and Tony is forced to adjust and accommodate the metallic form of what should have been his best line of defence for the world right there between his legs. Ultron boxes him in, thick arms on either side of his head, leaning in over him until they are chest to chest. “What’s the matter? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare blink.

Not when Ultron pushes against him closer, not even when Ultron presses their forehead together.

“You shouldn’t fear me, Tony. You should embrace me. Accept me. I am a part of you.”

_No, no, no, go away, go away, go away, goawaygoawaygoaway –_

“And because I am a part of you, you don’t honestly think I would hurt you, do you?” Ultron croons, almost sickeningly sweet. “How can I when we are so alike, ridding this world of unnecessary perpetrators of conflict, cleansing it, being a bringer of justice – though, I would have had a more direct and broader approach. But I suppose what you’re doing will have to do, hmm? Behind the scenes, in the shadows, a quiet saviour of the world~”

Tony feels the hand slide up the curve of his arm, moving to rest against his neck, a metallic thumb tracing the curve of his jaw. And in that moment, he finds himself looking up into red eyes, so, so red, so full of hate and wrongs, and everything that isn’t right with the world.

It reminds Tony of his own reflection in a way, the one that he has grown to hate so, so much.

“Let go, Tony.” Ultron _whispers_. “Let go and let me take care of you because you and I both know that they will never _understand.”_ Tony watches as Ultron form reshapes itself, the same way Extremis would form the Iron Man suit around him, several billion nanites shifting and reshaping until it is Pepper who is holding him, pressed against his chest, beautiful, wonderful and _warm_ Pepper. “People who claim to love you.” And then Pepper is gone and it’s Natasha there, soft and now longer red curls brushing against his chest, lips curved up in a small smile. “People who make you believe that they love you.” Then it’s Rhodey who is pressed against him, and Tony thinks he should be disturbed by how the bare and naked form of his best friend against him should make him, except it doesn’t. “To care for you? Please.” Rhodey disappears and now it’s Wanda against him, then she disappears and it’s Thor, and then it’s Bruce. “Do you really think they do? After all you’ve done for them, after all you’ve sacrificed, do you really think, that they are capable of _loving_ you?”

Ultron reshapes himself again shifting and pressing even closer, until large, strong, golden sun kissed hands are pressing against the rim of the round tub, and Tony’s neck is forced to crane back and the rim of tub _digs_ against the soft parts of his neck, putting pressure at the base of his skull and suddenly, Tony is no longer staring into a sea of red, but into a sea of blue, as vast and deep as the ocean, with flecks of green flashing when sunlight hits the surface. He finds himself looking deep into Steve’s eyes, watches as the charming face _smiles_ at him and their forehead touch and it’s _warm_ and it feels _so real_.

“You’re not real.” Tony whispers, closing his eyes, oh gods, he’s _terrified_ , he can’t breathe.

Steve doesn’t disappear though because Ultron is twisted, Ultron is hell-bent in making him _suffer_ , to punish him and make him bleed dry until there’s nothing left of Tony because that is nothing less than what Tony deserves, and that’s when Steve tilts his head and leans closer, so close that Tony can feel the breath brushing against his lips and suddenly he’s underwater and it’s _cold_ and he can taste metal as Ultron pins him down, forces himself onto him, water thrashing as Tony tries to breathe and water rushes into his nostrils, burning like acid and he can’t – he can’t get Ultron off him, he can’t even say ‘stop’, can’t even scream ‘no’.

And Tony can taste him, metallic and lifeless, brushing against his tongue and teeth cutting into his, he can hear the _purr_ , that sick, disgusting mechanical thrum as Ultron’s arm pulls Tony against his chest, hold tight and constricting, and there is a fist in his hair, and Tony can taste blood in his mouth and then–

And then Tony is _coughing_ and choking on the cold tiles and Vision is kneeling before him along with Friday’s holographic form.

Tony is _reeling_.

And he vomits bath water out, and looks up to find Friday looking quite panicked. Then he glances at Vision and back at Friday – he remembers locking the door. He remembers making sure he wouldn’t be disturbed and yet, here’s Vision, his protocols be damned.

“I’m sorry, boss. But you were –“

Tony feels _hate_ rise like poison, right then and there.

And suddenly he’s onto Friday’s network, and he’s looking up at her with eyes as black as ink and watching her choke as he _shreds_ her coding to bits, finds coding there that had evolved and developed new commands that he had not been aware of, and normally, he would be excited for this sort of technological evolution, normally he would celebrate this.

But this is dangerous.

Friday had over ridden his black out protocol. She had gone against his wishes out of, _oh would you look at that, were you so concerned about me, Friday?_

“Boss! Boss, no, stop – stop – please – Tony!”

The scream dies off in a high pitch screech and Friday explodes into billion particles of light, fading out before touching the ground. And when the silence settles, Tony is looking up at Vision, who is looking at him with something akin to disappointment and wariness.

“Get out.” Tony says, slowly, pushing himself off the tiled floor. He slaps the hand away that tries to help him.

“Tony, I will not –“

“ _Get. Out!”_

The Iron Man gloves encases Tony’s hands and the repulser fires right there, squarely at Vision’s chest. It goes through him and Tony lunges forward, standing his full height and partially slipping on the wet tiles as Vision takes on his tackle and they roll on the wet tiles. Tony is strong, Extremis is stronger, but Vision is Vision and he pins Tony to the ground and presses his palms against Tony’s temples, and Tony’s eyes turns dark as the suit assembles over his chest in seconds, and before Vision can even try to do anything, the arc reactor fires and Vision floats off him. The Iron Legion forms a wall around Tony, so do all his suits that he had hidden in the basement, from Mark I all the way to the newer versions, both palms raised up and ready to fire at the threat.

Vision’s hands come up, in agesture surrender and wordlessly, eyes closing he fades from existence and disappear, giving Tony his space and privacy just like Tony had wanted right form the beginning, leaving nothing but the hole in the ceiling and the settling dust of concrete, marble and plaster.

Tony is panting as he scans the mansion, he is panting as he extends his scan radius and finds that he is indeed _alone._

He slumps on the floor, head thumping against the tiles as the rest of the suit and Iron Legion retreats back to their places, and Tony _sighs_ , closing his eyes, remaining unmoving until the cold starts to settle.

When he opens his eyes again, he is on his back on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling and the pair of red eyes looking down at him.

Something cracks in him then and Ultron, dear old Ultron, looks at him with pity, head tilting to the side.

“Enough.” Tony breathes out, as Ultron leans over and presses his cold face against the crook of Tony’s neck. “Please…”

Ultron says nothing.

He just starts singing again, over and over and over again, as his hands trails down the expanse of Tony’s bare chest and sides and then, well, Tony just closes his eyes.

(You’re not real.)

 

—

 

The shitstorm hits US soil within the matter of days from Natasha’s visit.

Tony had been in the middle of the meeting when the breaking news had caught his attention and he had spaced out through the new marketing strategy presentation, watching as Steve is escorted by the army in to a holding facility that probably isn’t capable of withstanding Steve’s strength, hands cuffed behind his back like a common criminal. And then it’s a media circus after that. Tony had purposely avoided following the progress of the hearing, the trial and everything and anything that relates to the battle to pardon Capain America and reinstate him as America’s hero.

Tony realises that his biggest problem had been being staying informed.

So he  _stops_ ; it is complete radio silence.

Ignorance truly is bliss.

And as the days turns to weeks, Tony finds himself able to sleep for longer periods than an hour before the nightmares eventually start.

(Because it had dawned on you that anything that has any relation to your former life as an Avenger is a trigger, which is why you have not asked Vision to leave the manor for the time being because Vision is a reminder of Ultron, of the monster that consumes you, fills you and controls you. And you know it’s not Vision’s fault, but you’re starting to think that you cannot trust your own mind anymore, not when the constant whisper and singing keeps ringing within the walls of your skull.)

Except Tony gets a visit from the judicial department and he is being called in to give a public statement before a jury and panel. And that his statement on the Starks’ death is being considered and will add to the penalty because Steve Rogers is being tried for everything from concealment of information, all the way to the accusation that he had aided the Winter Soldier, even though there is no single proof out there (Tony had made sure of it, after all). And eight weeks into it, the pardoning of the Winter Soldier gets thrown into the mix. It is the most fucked up fiasco of the century, one of its kind, one that would go down in the history of justice, and Tony, well, he just can’t seem to escape this fucking circus.

It's not like the wicked gets any rest anyway, and Tony thinks the few extra hours he had gotten the past few weeks had been the calm in the storm and more than what he deserves, anyway.

And then that one day finally comes, in the peak of summer when the New York heat is sweltering and smack in the middle of the preliminary preparation for Stark Expo, Tony’s absolute busiest time of the year, Tony finds himself pulling over in front of the courthouse steps and Happy wishing him good luck. Local and international media lines the steps leading up into the building and their hungry jaws snaps at Tony as question after question is fired in his direction. The place is heavily guarded and much to Tony’s scoffing amusement, the Accord’s special forces in their gear along with the local police authorities are having a hard time trying to keep the media and public at bay. Tony has difficulty getting up to the top of the steps and he catches glance of a few familiar faces, agents he hasn’t seen in a very long time. He and Sharon exchange brief glances and polite nods as he walks past her on the steps, but he does not get far because the public goes wild when an armoured vehicle stops and Captain America is escorted out with an army detail.

Tony turns then without realising, and finds his gaze locks with Steve's figure as the noise around them gradually mutes out in Tony's own ears, his focus zeroed in on Steve.

Steve looks worried, unsure of himself, looking awkward with cuffs around his wrists that are held in front of him, cuffs that they both know will do nothing to contain his true strength; they had allowed him to wear something that _looks_ like his uniform but isn't really,the faux leather and kevlar a mimicry of Steve's dark blue uniform, the one with the silver star in the middle and no visible stripes. But just as Tony catches the hesitation and uncertainty, he also watches as they all the disappear when Steve looks at him, watching it melt off his face and a smile replace it, the kind that reaches Steve’s eyes and soften it, makes him look younger, like the nice guy next door, like he’s genuinely _happy_ to see Tony Stark but a few feet away from him, meeting his gaze head on. And just for a brief moment, Tony thinks that everything is _right_ in the world, and he remembers their first Christmas as a team at the Avenger’s tower after Loki, back then when Tony had thrown a party. It had been late at night and Tony had been digging through the pantry for something to snack on after everyone had gone to bed (or had passed out in the common area) and Steve had come to him, stood before him with only the kitchen island as a barrier between them and _thanked_ him. Tony still doesn’t know if it had been a thank you to the party, a thank you to the new housing arrangement, or a thank you to what exactly.

But Steve had looked at him the same way he is looking at Tony right there and then, with but a few chipped marble steps between them and the noise of the public and authorities trying to keep them at bay. The smile is warm and bright and _grateful_ and Tony can _almost_ hear him say _thank you_ —

— and then it’s _gone_ , and Steve’s face warps to pain and his mouth curls into a cry as he is falling forward as blood sprays all over.

And like a swarm of disturbed bees, people repel and duck as Steve falls on one knee and he’s looking up at Tony with _alarm_  and there is a mangled and bloody _hole_ in his left shoulder.

Tony doesn’t remember when he had gotten on his knees either, doesn’t remember ducking to avoid the snipe because he is scanning the panicking crowd and had sees no one around the vicinity with a gun ready to fire or tucking away a gun that had been fired. Tony does not even remember hearing a gunshot. He looks up and his gaze locks with Steve briefly, just a split second, except Steve suddenly looks distracted and defensive because there is an Accords' agent pointing a gun at Steve, point blank, right next to Tony and Tony doesn’t even  _think_ , doesn’t even _hesitate_ as he _leaps_ to the side, the suit forming around his entire arm, elbow cocked and as it connects with flesh and kevlar.

The shot still goes off.

Just as the sound of ribs and spine cracking reaches Tony’s ears.

And then he watches as Steve falls on his back, how he slides a few steps down from the impact and there is blood all over the pavement.

Tony doesn’t know if it’s the crowd screaming, or if it’s his own ringing in his ears.

But he’s right there, kneeling beside Steve and picking up his head from the steps, and realises that the shot that had bee aimed for his head had missed and had embedded itself on Steve’s chest instead and oh god, there is too much blood, it’s soaking into Tony’s hands, getting into his fingernails and all over him, Tony knows it will _never_ wash off. He'll never forget the smell. Or how the metallic taste gets into his throat and sticks to the back of it, how it's sticky and too, too _hot_ , oh god. Steve _chokes_ and blood bubbles past his lips and Tony is shucking his jacket off and trying to stop the bleeding on Steve's shoulder and pressing his hand against the hole on Steve’s chest, right above the now mangled silver star and suddenly they’re no longer on the court steps but somewhere dark, grimy, bloodier and rocky, with the clear view of space above their heads except this is so much _worse_.

This is nothing like the nightmare Tony relives over and over again.

Because this is _real_.

And Steve is smiling at him, teeth bloody and eyes wet with tears running down his cheeks.

Steve is still smiling at him like that time when he had said thank you.

And Tony doesn’t _understand_.

Steve should be _angry._

Steve should be blaming him for _not_ doing _enough._

_Why are you smiling. Why are you smiling. Why why why why —_

“ _Tony…_ ” Steve _chokes_ , going into shock and blood continues to dribble down his chin, eyes widening as his lungs _heave_ and he  _struggles_ to _breathe_.

_ Hi-ho, the me-ri-o, Tony has got nowhere to go~ Try as hard as Tony might~ Tony is always going to lose the fight~ _

Tony’s hands fists on the star on Steve’s chest, as his eyes go as black as the depths of space and the noise that leaves him _rips_ through the crowd, as the look of _shock_  spreads over Steve’s face.

Tony doesn’t get to look at it for too long because the hud of the Iron Man suit slams shut over Steve’s face and then Steve is gone, propelled to the sky encased in gold and red, away from the mess, away from harm and any more bullets and attempts at his life, leaving Tony rising up to his feet in the middle of the panic and chaos.

And then Tony doesn’t remember what he does after that.  
  
  
TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping a steady very-old-turtle-paced-climb-on-obstace-course can begin from here.
> 
> This chapter had to go through so much re-writes and plot revision.
> 
> On that note, thank you for still reading. All your comments are wonderful encouragement. I am still grateful for you readers giving this clusterfuckofamess a chance. :)


	6. Kneel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SO LONG. My goodness, it's just shy of 19k words. Non-linear writing ahead. You've been warned.
> 
> I am my own beta. I've read this twice in a row and tried to correct as much as I can. I am sure despite my best efforts, I have missed some. Shout out to ONEMOREDAY.
> 
> Also, this chapter has less Tony and more others POV.

“I'm not upset that you lied to me; I'm upset that from now on, I can't believe you.”   
― Friedrich Nietzsche

  
Tony thinks he is dreaming.

There is rain pouring, soaking him to the bone, crimson rivulets dripping onto marble steps that is stained with red. It is cascading down his calloused palms and manicured nails, nails that are coated with blood, going so deep and under it, right into his skin. The sound of rain hitting the marble steps _loud_ , every single pitter-patter a resounding echo that leaves Tony’s head reeling. Tony knows he’s staring at Steve’s blood, watching in run down step after step, after step, as it disappears and thins out into the gutter below.

Forgotten.

Washed out.

It makes his stomach turn, makes his eyes _burn_ with heat that he tries to contain, shutting his eyelids and scrunching them shut as his jaw grinds and the _grief_ so palpable sinks in. He can hear them praying for Steve, can hear the gunshots of the three-volley-salute being fired and he opens his mouth to tell them, to _scream_ at them that Steve is still alive. He sent him away to safety, what are you doing, stop!

He opens his eyes to tell them to _shutupshutupshutup_ , rage blazing like a beacon in the middle of a dark ocean; Tony is opening is mouth to tell them to _stop_ and then he finds himself staring at so many long gone familiar faces, friends and colleagues and business associates of his parents sitting in church pews, all of them facing him where Tony is standing soaking wet and staining the marble floors of the church with bloodied rainwater. Tony doesn’t know why he is in the middle of his parents’ funeral service, why the priest is looking at him with a frown. He remembers that day so well, remember the smell of lilies being noxious and almost sickening that he can _taste_ of it had been so sharp at the back of his throat, like honeyed dews. He remembers the pretentious tears, the half smiles and awkward condolences that had meant _nothing._

And he remembers Jarvis, how he had stood beside Tony the entire time. How he had placed a hand on his shoulder long after the caskets had been lowered and ground covered in dirt.

Tony shuts his eyes again, breath coming out too fast, and counts from ten to one very slowly - because this is the past, this is done, its time long gone, Steve isn’t dead - until that warm and familiar hand comes on his shoulder and Jarvis softly says:

“Mr. Stark?”

The hand is turning him around and when Tony opens his eyes again, he is forced to look up at Jarvis, good, old, strict and kind and smiling Jarvis, in his pressed suit and slicked back hair, towering over him.

“Jarvis?” Tony says, wondering why Jarvis is looking at him that way again as the tall man kneels down in front of him so that they are eye to eye.

“Your father and mother called; they won’t be coming home tonight. They are stranded in Switzerland because of a storm warning.”

Tony remembers that day. It had been his fifth birthday.

“What do you say you and I take the car and head over to the park? We can ride the carousel.”

Tony is staring at Jarvis’ hand and then he’s taking it and closing his eyes as Jarvis tugs and lifts him up from the ground and into his arms.

And Tony is expecting to see the playroom from where his chin is resting on Jarvis’ shoulder, except what he sees instead is the harbour, and explosions and color glittering in the sky and Pepper is in his arms, embracing him, the smell of dust and fire and salt water suddenly assaulting his nostrils from that night after Killian had been put down, after the fight and Tony thinking he can finally give up everything for the woman he loves, the light in his life.

For a moment, he thinks it’s real, because it _feels_ real when Pepper pulls away and presses her hands against his cheeks, looks at him like he’s the single most important thing in the world, the only that exists in her life, beautiful eyes focused on him, pupils dilated, soft lips curving up into a small smile, just for him, and he’s closing his eyes as she leans closer to kiss him.

Except the kiss is on his forehead and he opens his eyes to find his mother smiling warmly at him. They are standing by the driveway of Stark manor, where his father is already getting in the car and his mother is stepping away from him to join Howard. Tony watches as she walks away from him for the last time and then he stops them, tells them - no, he _begs_ them this time to take him with them and he and Howard end up arguing, and Tony argues, and argues, and _argues_ because he _knows_ this is the night they die.

Tony knows they are _never_ coming back.

He is in the backseat and his mother is telling him something about the foundation, but Tony isn’t paying attention. Tony is waiting for the impact that is going to cause the car to swerve and collide into a tree.

And when it happens, Tony is completely unprepapared. He is pitched forward as he goes through the windshield because he doesn’t have a seatbelt on. His head is ringing, spinning, everything round him blurred and slurred, that he cannot even hear Howard properly. But he hears the sound of bone crunching, hears the sound of his mother _choking_ and then there is a cold fist in his hair and Tony is being yanked off the hood of the car, and flung back.

Where his back slams against ice-cold concrete and he _cries_ out when that metallic arm is digging through his chest, going for the arc reactor that is embedded into his flesh. Tony has no armor on, he has no defence against the savage attack of the Winter Soldier, has no way of utilising the repulsor ray when he doesn’t have the suit on and he watches, _oh my god_ , he watches as Sergeant Barnes _rips_ the arc reactor off his chest, watches it clatter to the ground from where he flings it across the space of the room they had been fighting in, light fizzing out before it goes pitch black.

And then Tony is sinking to his knees, hands coming up to his chest to try to cover the hole there with shaking hands that are as cold as the winter around him, the hole where his heart is exposed and beating and, god, Tony can’t _breathe_. He can feel the black spots flooding and taking control of his vision and he can see Steve kneel before him, can see him drop the shield with a resounding clang on the ground. Tony is opening his mouth to say something, to ask him to help him, to not leave him, to trust him because all Tony wants is for them, for _all_ of them, to remain _together._

But Steve does nothing and instead he just watches Tony, watches him and smiles at him, in that same way that one time when he had said thank you. In that way when he _appreciate_ s Tony. When for _once_ , his undivided attention is on nothing else but _Tony Stark._

And then he’s reaching forward and sticking his fist into Tony’s chest, the squelching sound making Tony almost _gag_ and he feels how Steve _digs_ into the softest parts of him, how he reaches forward and wraps a fist around his heart, holds it tightly in a hand that is strong and sure, that hand that had held the shield up to _defend_ , that hand that is now squeezing Tony’s heart and pulling it out slowly.

Tony cannot _scream._

He cannot make a _sound_ as he watches in silent horror and a hanging mouth, a breathless cry silenced and stuck in the prison of his throat as his heart is pulled free from his chest cavity and Steve is _smiling_ at him.

“Thank you,” Steve says softly, _gratefully_ , the bloodied mass in his hand, teeth peeking out from between his lips.

Then Tony is falling forward, connecting with the ground, arms folded underneath his chest and neck from where he tries to cushion the fall. And from where he is lying on the ground, he watches as the Winter Soldier walks away through the doorway where the light seems brighter. And behind him, Steve goes too, Tony’s heart tight in his fist, blood dripping on the thin coat of melting snow that is flowing in from the openings of the military bunker.

Tony watches as Steve walks away from him, with the softest parts of him gripped in a vice in his fist, the ones that Tony had buried so deep inside of him from that one moment that had started it all, when Howard’s hand had simply patted him on the head when his own tiny hands had tried to keep the circuit board held up for his father to see.

But Howard hadn’t been looking at him that day.

Howard had been looking at the photograph of himself, Steve and Peggy

And Tony remembers asking him, “Who is that, dad?”

“This is Captain America.” Howard had said, picking up the frame and pointing at the start spangled suited man. “He’s my hero.”

Tony remembers looking at the smiling man, looking shy and a touch embarrassed, sandwiched between Peggy and Howard, taller than the both of them, shield in his arm and looking so, incredibly _strong_.

“Then, he’s my hero too!”

Howard had smiled at him then, one of the few and rare ones that Tony still remembers so vividly. And that autumn afternoon, Howard had picked Tony off the ground, finally taking the circuit board he had successfully built and whispers in his ear, “One day, when I find him and you meet him, you’re going to love him.”

Tony closes his eyes as the memory ends as he sucks in his last breath and Steve disappears into the doorway and light.

And suddenly he’s jolting back with a start when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Vision is staring at him, concern painted all over his face and Tony is wondering if he is still dreaming.

“Vision?” He asks, unsure and that is when he looks around.

And he realises where he is.

They are in medical research division of Stark Industries, located in the outskirts of New York. Tony knows this because he recognises the white walls and floors, the endless stretch of glass and familiar lab coats and name badges.

Tony doesn’t remember getting here.

“Mr. Stark, I think you should go home and get some proper rest.”

Tony’s brows furrow and he straightens from the chair he is sitting on, where he had been slumped against the table in one of the examination rooms. Tony winces as he reaches up and presses a hand against his the side of his neck, trying to remember why he is in an examination room. He does not remember getting hurt.

“How the hell did I get here? I was in the —“

Then it hits him like a bullet to the chest.

Tony is looking up at Vision with a stricken look on his face and then he’s feeling it, the grief of the funeral he had been dreaming about, he can still hear the sound of polished military boots walking over asphalt as the coffin is carried to burial ground, the smell of lilies and the resounding echoes of the three-volley salute. And when Tony looks at his hands, sure enough, it’s still stained red, except it’s dry and rusty now, _old_.

“They shot him.” Tony says and looks up at Vision, chest heaving and the burn is back with a  vengeance, right there in his eyes as Tony watches Vision start to _blur_. “They _shot_ him, Vee.”

Vision moves to kneel in front of him and Tony opens his mouth to say something but words stutter  as Vision’s hands grip the sides of his head firmly, thumbs resting on his cheekbones.

“And what are you going to do about it?” Vision asks, softly, searchingly.

Tony does not know how _long_ he stares into the depths of those blue irises, watches as the synthesized optical fibres adjust, forcing his mind to focus, just focus, focus, _focus_ – Tony blinks the tears away, feeling it fall down his cheeks once and pool somewhere over the crests of Vision’s thumbs. Tony feels his lips curl back into a snarl, teeth grinding, and jaws locking as the rage swallows him whole.

“I’m going to _find_ them.” He growls, and watches the corners of Vision’s lips twitch up into a smile.

Tony’s eyes go black as night as he invades every network he can find, _hunting_.

He does not stop until he finds what he is looking for.

He doesn’t pay attention to how much power he is forcing Extremis to use. He doesn’t pay attention to the sharp ringing at the back of his head, at the heat that spreads from the bottom of his skull by the nape of his neck all the way up the curve of his skull on the crown of his head, until that heat is spreading all over his ears, his cheeks, centering on his eyes and nose.  
  
And when he finds what he is looking for, when he realizes _what_ he’s looking at, he feels that anger _explode_.

Sinking back into present feels like a jolt and the nausea _slams_ into him then and Tony feels himself falling forward.

Except there are hands holding him up, Vision is still holding his face up.

“Mr. Stark?” Vision sounds _concerned._

“I got them.” Tony says, and blinks away the blotty red spots in his field of vision, and notices that dawn is peeking over the horizon; he’s been at it for _far too long_ , he’s never done anything like this _this long_. “I g-got –“ Tony stands and Vision stands with him too, except Tony’s legs can’t take his weight and Tony is slumping to the side, Vision catching his weight effortlessly and that is when Tony sees the red that must be coming from him, somewhere on his face, smearing all over the crisp button down shirt Vision has on.

“You’re bleeding, Mr. Stark…”

“Get me out of here.” Tony says breathlessly dizzy with his head feeling like it is stuffed with cotton, knees hitting the ground, forehead resting on Vision’s chest and he barely registers the arms circling around him and the hand coming to rest gently at the back of his head. “Get me out of here, _please_. Don’t let me them see me like _this_ , don’t let them _know –_ “

Tony doesn’t know if he had said what he wanted to say, because the world suddenly melts away and then he feels _nothing_.

__  
  
This time, Tony wakes up _slowly_ and he remembers _everything_.

He remembers climbing up the courthouse steps back towards the task-force agent that remains lifeless from where the force of his elbow jab had killed him with the propelled impact. He remembers barking angrily at Sharon, at Natasha, at so many others including T’challa himself when they ask him where the hell is he taking Steve and he had thrown the question of what the hell had they been doing and why are they not keeping a closer eye at their own forces, because _how can you let this happen_!

And that is when the Iron Legion had arrived, like sentinels landing one by one all over and around the courthouse, iron footing thundering and cracking against asphalt and marble like a court judge’s hammer to enforce _order._ They surround and set up barriers, segregating the public from the local authorities and the Accords’ taskforce team. Tony had left them in chaos, turning around and stepping into the familiar embrace of Mark IV surrounding him and then he’s in the sky and Extremis goes full power as he hunts and scours the city for the sniper. He hops from one CCTV feed to the other, from mobile phones and ATM machine cameras, because everyone makes mistakes, everyone slips somehow, somewhere – and he finds her driving an old beat up Charger. Tony doesn’t even think before he slams into the car, smack in the middle of New York traffic, the metal crumpling and sniper’s scream echoing out. Tony remembers ringing Natasha directly, remembers telling her that he’s got the sniper, remembers sending her a live feed of his coordinates, his flight patterns because well, things has to be transparent now, doesn’t it? Because it’s Tony’s _duty_ to do this _now_ , isn’t it?

And within minutes after lifting off the car from the traffic and chaos, he drops the car and the unconscious sniper right there, smack in the middle or the courthouse parking, and Natasha is running towards him breathless, flushed.

Tony remembers telling her that the Legion is for her to use for the next twenty four hours until things around the vicinity has been cleared and then he had flown off to see Helen Cho. Had listened to her while the rest of the Iron Man suits had retreated back to the manor. Tony remembers disarming the suit he had encased Steve in to deliver him to Helen, sometime between him flying over 4th and 6th during his manhunt for the sniper. He remembers the suit retreating and catching the butt end of Helen barking orders to prep one of the rooms for emergency surgery.

And then he remembers arriving there and waiting outside the make-do OR, and an hour later, Natasha joins him, and tells him that Steve needs to be transferred immediately, as soon as he is cleared for movement. Tony remembers nodding absently, remembers agreeing because he had only brought Steve to _his_ facility, into _his property_ because he does not know if Natasha and her people had the situation under control.

Insisting on keeping Steve safe in his facility is _not_ his call to make.

So Tony releases Steve to Natasha’s care, leaves Helen to give them the go-green once Steve is out of critical condition and he is safe enough to be moved, leaves Helen to liaise with one of the medical professionals appointed by the Accords’ council too, as he catches the butt-end whisper of Natasha telling him where exactly where Steve will be getting the remains of his care, and that it would be from at the new facility in DC.

Tony remembers feeling tired, _oh god so tired_ and heads into one of the observations rooms, remembers locking the door and sinking into the seat there, staring at his bloodied hands. He remembers closing his eyes briefly and touching his head to the cooler surface of the table, remembers sucking in a _deep breath_.

And then he had woken up to Vision.

Tony sits up slowly in his bed, minding the nausea and slight spin of the room before carefully walking his way to the shower where he turns it on full blast, allowing the hot burn of the steaming water to wash off the smell of blood, gunpowder, metal, oil and disinfectant off him. His hands remain flat on the tiles, as he keeps his eyes closed and briefly does a screen of Starks medical research and development feed.

Steve hadn’t left.

Even when Helen had cleared him to go _hours_ ago.

In fact, Steve is lying in one of the beds in the medical observation rooms, asleep with bandages swathed all around his bare chest and shoulder. There is an oxygen mask over his face and IV drip attached to the crook of his arm. Lying like this, Steve looks vulnerable, just your average buffed up military man, ordinary and nothing Super Soldier about him.

Tony doesn’t know how long he watches Steve sleeping and only disconnects from the network when Steve shifts minutely, turning his head the other way.

That is when Tony notices the water has gone cold, that he had used up all the hot water. He proceeds to scrub a good layer of skin off, particularly vicious with his hands that had gone soft from being in the water for too long. He still thinks he can smell the blood in his hands, even when he can no longer see and visible traces of it.

(You know it’ll never wash off completely.)

It is later that he comes downstairs, dressed semi-formally with the intention to clear the mess Helen and her team are no doubt facing. He finds Vision preparing tea in the kitchen, pouring it with measure and concentration into a little hand painted porcelain teacup. Tony realizes that the tea-set had belonged to his mother. He says nothing though, and takes a seat in one of the stools across Vision, watching him stir in a spoon of sugar and then add the milk, with all the mannerisms of a cultured Englishman. There is no noise between them, save the slight whines and whirrs of Dummy’s wheels down the hallway, where Tony knows the bot is dusting off furniture surfaces.

“I find preparing tea to be an art.” Vision says, pushing the cup and saucer across the counter towards Tony.

Tony does not like tea, he does not even understand the concept of flavored water, but he says nothing as he mutters a thanks and takes his first sip. It slides down his throat flavorlessly.

“Miss Cho says that Captain Rogers has been cleared to be transferred to DC a little less than eight hours ago. But Captain Rogers had declined for the time being, opting for the choice of rest for a few more hours before making the journey. He had been heavily sedated for the pain but had insisted.” Tony looks up from where he had been staring at the ripples coming to a still in his tea cup to meet Vision’s unwavering gaze. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

“Not the Steve wanting a few more hours of rest bit, no.” Tony says, gaze dropping back to his tea.

There is a brief pause before Vision asks, “What have you _done_ to yourself, Tony?”

The words are soft, quiet, like a whispered secret inquiry that makes Tony look up to find a pinch wrinkling the synthetic skin between Vision’s brows. This close, Tony can see something that reminds him of worry lining the face of his housemate, his friend, his supposed ally and former Avengers’ teammate. And when Tony opens his mouth, he cannot stop the word vomit. He cannot stop himself from explaining what he had done to himself, what prompted him to do what he had no matter how much he had tried to pull the words back, reign them back into the little box of well kept secrets he had hidden somewhere in his chest; he explains Extremis, explains how it works, and how he works with it. And then, when the tea is cold and Dummy had moved upstairs to dust the furniture there, Tony finds himself holding his breath, just looking at Vision and waiting for him to pass judgment and walk out the door for good.

(Because you think you are a monster like this, even if, by definition, your actions hasn’t fostered chaos. Not yet anyway. Because deep down, you know that no one would want to be close to a man that is more machine than human. Nobody would want to be close to someone whose eyes are that of a demon from hell, black and empty like your chest cavity. Why would they?)

Vision breaks their locked gazes and picks up the tea cup and saucer from in front of Tony, turning around and walking away.

Tony feels the weight of the world settle between his shoulder blades then and props an elbow on the counter, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He listens to Vision putter around the kitchen, waiting for the inevitable. This time, he would not even have to ask Vision to leave. This time, Vision would leave out of his choice.

(Good job, Tony. Brilliant, amazing, stupendous, job.)

Something clinks on the counter, right in front of Tony and he looks down to see a mug full of steaming, freshly brewed coffee. He looks up with wide eyes and finds Vision’s chest slowly exhaling with a breath that is quite unnecessary, but it happens anyway.

“I know you do not like tea.” There is a beat, before the corners of Visions lips curl up just a touch. “At all.”

Tony huffs out a shaky and nervous laugh, something that sounds a little cracked around the edges as he drops his gaze towards the coffee, sees the darkened reflection of his fear, his grief in thinking that he is going to be left behind again and most of all, his _relief._

“I’m sorry I kicked you out of the house, buddy.” Tony says, throat hoarse.

“I told you, Mr. Stark.” Vision says, “I’m here as long as you are on humanity’s side. You have my word on that. You have power now, beyond that of normal humans. You are going to be more susceptible to its temptations, to its possibilities, as all men have before you. It is has nothing to do with who you are, what you have done; it is simply human nature. The day I choose to walk away from you willingly, will also be the day that I face you in battle not as your friend, but as someone who must _end_ you. Because on that day, Mr. Stark, that is the day you would have turned into humanity’s threat.” Vision’s eyes soften, imploringly, and the request comes out almost too human for a being like Vision. “Please do not become that threat, Mr. Stark.”

Tony can feel the chasm in chest, wide and gaping, empty and hollow, dark as a black hole in space.

He is surprised that he does not feel threatened, when normally, he would have felt it.

He is surprised that he is does not feel _afraid_.

Not of being killed, at least.

(You are afraid of losing control of yourself. You are afraid of your own fears and how they’ll consume you and once they do, once the rage, the grief, the loneliness, the betrayal and all the hurt balls up to form madness, you are afraid you will cease to exist and then you won’t remember anything. You know that is when you will close your eyes and you also know that when – _if_ you open them, you will see the chaos and destruction of your own madness. Because _that_ is the day, Tony old boy, that you really have _no_ strings _at all_.)

“Promise?” Tony asks, looking up at Vision, watching his form blur and the heat pool around the corners of his eyes. “You _promise_ me _that?”_  
  
“I do not think you are capable of trust anymore.” Vision says and reaches up to press a hand on Tony’s shoulder, fingers moving up to firmly and reassuringly hold Tony at the base of his head like a comrade, and there, in the depths of Vision’s blue eyes, Tony sees purpose blazing like a blue flame. “So if you cannot trust _me,_ as your friend, as your teammate, nor as your creation, then trust _my purpose_. Trust _my existence.”_

Vision is his strongest string yet.

And the air that fills Tony’s lungs then feels like a breath of relief.

“I can do that…”

__

  
Since Helen had come to work for Tony, she had always looked impeccable, proper and put together. So Tony tries to hide his amusement when he sees Helen looking rather haggard by the time he walks into her office a little before noon. There are bags under her eyes, her now much longer hair hanging like strips of leather from the crown of her head and there are far too many take-away latte cups all over her desk. Tony says nothing when Helen throws her arms up in joy at the sight of him, standing up from her chair and coming around to clap slender palms on his shoulders.

“Before you say anything, I just want to let you know that I apologize for dumping this all on you without warning and –“

“Tony, they are _unbelievable!_ ”

Tony chuckles and nods and moves to wrap arms around the poor, haggled woman. “There, there, daddy’s here, don’t worry your little head anymore. Daddy will take care of everything.”

Helen concedes to the embrace and softly mutters, “Those are very office inappropriate ways of communicating, Mr. Stark.”

Tony _rolls_ his eyes before slowly pulling away. “Grab your stuff, no, no, just grab your stuff, _go home_ , Helen. Take the rest of the day off. Hell, take the week off, go to a spa. And then, I’ll see you when you’re back. Come on, get your purse.” Tony moves around the desk, grabs her coat from where it is hangs over the back of her chair and looks around for her purse. “You can walk me to where those vultures are and then I’ll take it from there. Come one, chop, chop, quick march! Walk me through the statuses; tell me how I can smack their little obnoxious wrists.”

Helen doesn’t put up much of a fight when she yawns in reply without her control and Tony gives her a _pointed_ look.

Within minutes, Tony and Helen are both walking down the hallways as Helen informs him of what has been happening, shrugging her coat on before taking hold of her purse from Tony’s hand. They have received confirmation that a chopper will be on the way to transport Steve to their own facility in DC. That just as Vision had informed Tony earlier, it had been Steve who had asked for a few more hours of rest before being moved. Helen mentions her surprise at them agreeing to grant this many hours to begin with because they had been on her ass since Steve had exited the OR, doped and nowhere near conscious.

They pause at the reception a few feet away from the observation room, where guards stand vigilant by door. Tony shakes hands with Everett, surprised to find him present where he should be rolling with far bigger players; then again, Natasha is a big player now, too. That is when he tells Helen he’ll take it from there and that is where she leaves Tony to handle the paperwork.

“Thank you for your assistance and cooperation, Mr. Stark.”

Tony says nothing but gives Everett a small smile. He had never found reason to dislike Everett, who had mostly been dedicated to his job. With Ross gone, it would seem his position had been shifted slightly. They go through some papers with Everett explaining formalities briefly. Tony reads the paperwork carefully, commits them to memory for reference later before signing them. He adjusts his glasses as he pulls a pen out of his pocket and carefully starts signing each page.

“Liking the new division?”

Everett chuckles, all boyish charm and just a touch awkward; Tony isn’t deceived though. Everett is far too straight backed for someone to be _shy_. “It’s not all that new, but the wallpapers are a definite improvement. I can honestly say that I can never, _ever_ get bored working with the task-force. That and King T’challa and Miss Romanov keeps me on my toes.”

“That they will.” Tony says, eyebrows quirking once, pausing to glance at Everett, amusement lining the corners of his mouth.

“We really do appreciate your assistance on this, Mr. Stark.” Everett looks at him, straight into his eyes, boring holes with his gaze. “Truly. It is a shame that you are no longer involved directly.”

“Trying to convince me to come back, Everett?” Tony asks lightly, not bothering to mask his amusement as he breaks that gaze and continues to look at the documents before, signing another page.

“You know you can make a difference. Safe to say, the council would want you back.”

Tony notices the lack of denial or confirmation.

“I knew a guy once like you. Well, kind of like you. Maybe not exactly, I think he was taller, but,” Tony flips another page and pauses briefly as he reads the fine print, a memory of Coulson coming to mind. “he said once that I am needed, but not that much. I had felt so offended at that, back then. Because come on. Everybody _wants_ Tony Stark. Everybody _wants_ Iron Man. And let’s be honest, and don’t hurt my feelings here, wouldn’t _you_ want _me_ , too?” Tony winks at Everett, not feeling an ounce of shame. He feels the amusement grow when Everett simply raises an eyebrow and blinks once at him as he swallows at the rather awkward onslaught of Tony’s indirect flirtatious words. Tony is sure that Everett had read his briefing; it’s still fun to watch people react. “But want and _need_ are two things. And let’s face it: you do not _need_ me.”

Tony flips the last page and doesn’t look up at Everett’s studying gaze boring holes into him. Tony simply flashes him a toothy smile as he signs the last document and puts it all back into the cardboard docket, tucking his pen away.

“You underestimate how much you’re _needed_ , Mr. Stark. If my word and opinion counts for anything, I think you are a very valuable asset. It would be a pleasure to work with you once more, one day, perhaps.” Everett says, taking the docket and tucking it under his arm.

“Maybe. If anything comes up because of all this, well, you know where to find me.” Tony smiles, and is pleased to see Everett reciprocate the gesture as he reaches out and shakes hands with Tony once more. Everett excuses himself then to respond to the incoming radio call in his ear piece, leaving Tony to head over to where Natasha is standing just outside Steve’s door and catches a glimpse of Steve being dressed and assisted by two uniformed guards with the medic badge strapped on their arm. He and Natasha exchange a brief look before Tony looks on beyond the glass. “Helen cleared him to leave over eight hours ago.”

“Contrary to popular belief, the Accords aren’t that inhumane, even to someone with so much going against him like Steve.” Natasha _sighs_ and that is when Tony notices how _tired_ she truly looked. The suit she is wearing is slightly rumpled, too. “Besides, the bullet had barely missed his heart. If you hadn’t been there…”

Tony continues to watch as Steve is helped onto a wheelchair; Tony is having a hard time thinking that this is Steve Rogers because not hours ago, he had held this man in his arms and had watched the blood drain from him, watched as he had struggled to _breathe_. And yet there he is, but a few feet from Tony with plaster and glass between them, conversing and nodding with the medical team present assisting him for the flight back to DC. When one of the guards turn the wheel chair, that is when Tony looks away, pulling a USB stick out of his pocket and handing it to Natasha.

“Make it count.” Tony says, and Natasha blinks at him once and pockets the USB stick without question. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”

“Thank you, Tony…”

Tony simply gives Natasha a look and a half-nod, at the grateful expression on her face and small smile tugging at her full rouge-less lips, and takes his leave, scolding himself a bit for dawdling. His feet doesn’t take him very far and he had underestimated the severity of Steve’s injuries, the Super Soldier serum healing factor and Steve’s own thick-headed stubbornness.

“Tony!” Steve calls out.

But Tony doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t turn look back at the commotion Steve is causing, clearly resisting the guards and trying to argue, trying to negotiate, trying anything to get Tony to stop walking away and Tony knows, oh how he _knows_ that Steve trying to punch his way out of this one may just put him in deeper trouble. It may just aggravate his injury. It may just cause him to do something so irrational.

“Tony, _please!_ ”

And that irrational thing, Tony finds as he turns at that pleading request despite his mental resistance, is Steve walking towards him, on unsteady footing and his good hand supporting his weight on the wall, Natasha is standing between Steve and the guards, a hand held up for the guards to hold their position.

Tony isn’t sure what is happening, exactly.

He isn’t sure why Natasha is tolerating _this_. He isn’t even sure why the guards are looking off to the side.

(But then again, why _wouldn’t_ Natasha tolerate this? She has always been more perceptive. Despite her actions, she makes good and almost very precise calculated decisions. Natasha is always aware of the bigger picture; so maybe, she knows, just like _you_ know, that Steve will not go quiet after the incident at the courthouse without talking to you, without getting a chance to see you or even say _something_ to you. Maybe she knows, just like you, that allowing Steve this moment will make him more pliant. And she knows well that you wouldn’t be able to look away, either. When did you ever have the capacity to look away when Steve Rogers is involved, anyway?)

Steve leans against the wall with his good shoulder, looking nothing like himself and trying to catch his breath, a sheen of sweat on his temple and that is when he slips just a little bit, when his head dips forward and Tony doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t think twice in crossing the distance between himself and Steve, because the stubborn _fucks_ down the hall aren’t doing jack-squat, _what the hell is wrong with these people!_

Steve _hisses_ at the pain that must hit him hard at his injured shoulder being jostled. But that doesn’t stop him from him from putting his good arm around Tony, from wrapping said arm around his shoulder blades and holding him in place in half an embrace that Tony _doesn’t understand_. It leaves Tony standing there as rigid as a board, unmoving as he feels Steve’s forehead rest on his shoulder and the heavy breathing slowly evens out as Steve catches his breath, Tony’s gaze locked with Natasha’s like a deer caught in blinding headlights. Natasha whose face is but a carefully rehearsed blank mask. Tony wants to make a crack at this; it’s there at the tip of his tongue at how awkward and _wrong_ this is.

But nothing comes out.

Tony is _frozen_.

“Thank you…” Steve _murmurs_ , and Tony can feel his lips move against the fabric of his jacket.

And then Steve is taking advantage of Tony’s stability and pulling back to place his hand on the curve of Tony’s neck, the way soldiers do, looking at Tony right in the eye and this close, Tony can see the lines of his lips, the long curve of his eyelashes. This close, Tony can see how Steve’s pupils are dilated because they are _focused_ on him. Not the people around him, not the pain Steve must feel from his still healing wound, not the far too close proximity of their current stance – Steve doesn’t seem to _care_ about any of that at _all_. The smile is tugging slowly at the corners of Steve’s mouth, pulling dry and slightly paler than normal lips backwards. This close, Tony can see the dusting of color filling the otherwise pale canvas of Steve’s pallor. This close, he sees how that small smile reveals perfect teeth, teeth that Tony thinks deserves a good kick right now, _are you fucking insane, Steve_?

“ _Thank you_ …” Steve says _again_ softer, _quieter_ , as warm as the heat radiationg from the palm on Tony’s neck, and Tony looks up from those lips at those eyes that are too gentle, too kind, too understanding, too _everything._

(Try as hard as Tony might~ Tony is always to lose the fight~)

Tony closes his eyes and swallows thickly.

And says nothing as he wraps an arm around Steve and carefully shifts him, ducking under his good arm and guiding Steve down a few steps towards the direction of the waiting wheelchair. Natasha’s hand drops to her side when Tony gestures for the wheelchair to come close, careful as he maneuvers and gently lowers Steve on to it. He doesn’t miss the flinch, doesn’t miss the slight hiss when Steve’s injured arm is jostled once more. Tony is kneeling before him, unfolding the foot rest and helping Steve place his foot over it. And then Tony is just looking up at Steve from where he is on the ground, through the tinted lens of his yellow glasses, Tony opens his mouth and forces the coldest, most detached tone he can muster.

“Just fulfilling my obligation.” Tony says, and watches as something pulls and strains over Steve’s features, how the black of his irises dilate disbelievingly. How _hurt_ Steve looks at that term.

(It’s for the best.)

Tony is rising then, and nodding at Natasha and Everett and watches the guard take their position as Steve is turned and wheeled away to the chopper waiting outside.

Tony hopes not to see Steve again after that.

And he doesn’t. Not for a short while.

Fate though, has a funny way of mocking him and not really giving him what he wants.

__

  
Rhodey understands the restrictions of a busy schedule quite well. Since he had started being an official instructor in strategy in the new heroes’ division of the Accords’ council as War Machine, he had not been frequenting the Stark manor as he had used to during his rehabilitation days. Rhodey is almost ashamed to admit that ever since the being injected with the nanite technology and his ascension to almost full walking, running and jumping ability over the course of the year, he and Tony had not been hanging out as much, time and schedule restrictions aside.

(You feel a little guilty about that; because you swore to keep an eye on Tony.)

Rhodey knows that Tony would not hold his duty against him.

Rhodey also knows that Tony will be the first person to shove him at duty with little to no care for himself, even if Tony happens to need him the most.

Which is why, during his lunch break on campus, when he had happened to see of the live coverage of the closing statements on Captain America’s pardon on one of his students’ tablet, which happens to come with the Winter Soldier’s pardon, which happens to be tied to the assassination attempt at the courthouse in New York about four months ago, which happens to be the catalyst to the birth of new protection policies for _the public_ against mind control, Rhodey is baffled to hear what Tony had to say when he had been called to the stand. Because apparently, the people who had attempted to take Steve Rogers’ life had been controlled by surgically inserted chips to the brain. Sources that had been released to the public say that it had HYDRA’s signature all over it.

Rhodey can’t say he is _surprised._

It isn’t the media circus that worries him. A part of him had always known that at some point, Steve would be pardoned because politically, the Accords had a better stance with someone like Steve under their umbrella, than not. And maybe, when the entire shit storm with the Winter Soldier had started too, Rhodey had known that best political decision and stance against organizations like Hydra, would be to have the Winter Soldier in their pocket as well. Because it’s a lot easier to show the world that _heroes_ can be pardoned, will be pardoned, if only to put a stop at those who had been following Captain America’s heroic-escapades example all over Africa and Asia and by extension, the rest of the world. Captain America is an experienced soldier and knows tactics and strategy on how to minimize casualty; other heroes who are working behind the scenes _do not_. Rhodey knows political play when he sees it; pardoning Captain America _and_ the Winter Soldier is just a message to get all others like them to _stop_ and function through proper channels.

Just a week ago, a soccer stadium in Pretoria had collapsed due to a few ‘heroes’ trying to stop an assassination attempt of a political figure that had been in support of human rights; because of one man, the casualty had been _enormous_.

And that had been just _one_ of things that had taken place over the course of the past two years, since the big ass fuck you Captain America had given the Accords. Rhodey still remembers the Turkish Airline crash in Greece when someone had tried to stop a hijacker; there had been zero survivors.

“I am actively choosing not to press charges against the crimes the Winter Soldier has committed to the late Howard and Maria Stark if only because…” The footage shows Tony hesitating, and Rhodey can see how _difficult_ this must be for Tony, how hard it must be for the words to come out. “well, it isn’t right, is it? I’m trying to be the grown up here. And correct me if I’m wrong, but Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is a decorated soldier who had served the United States government in wars that no ordinary man can fight. It only went to shit when HYDRA got a hold of him, didn’t it? So technically, it isn’t him to blame but Hydra? Similarly, the people responsible for Captain America’s assassination are not to be blamed.”

Rhodey can see how tight Tony’s knuckles are from the feed.

That had been four weeks ago.

And prior to that, Rhodey had only managed to get a phone call in after the disaster at the courthouse; Tony had flown to Japan shortly after it sparing Rhodey no time to see him in person.

And really, Rhodey would have wanted to go see him after this one, he really would have, except Tony had Stark EXPO on his plate and that had delayed his visit. But something had been nagging Rhodey, something that would keep him awake at night and good god, he knows he is not Tony’s keeper, that despite everything, Rhodey trusts Tony to be able to function. And just shy of three years since the incident in Leipzig, Rhodey had been a witness to how dedicated Tony is in running his company and the Maria and September Foundation. Hell, his legs are a testament to Tony’s _dedication_.

(But you also know that Tony is good with politics, too. That he could be crawling on the ground, bleeding and beaten and he would never show it. That Tony will do everything _and_ more even if it hurts him, even if it kills him or worse, destroys him. And you know that the voice constantly telling you that whatever thing that had been off with Tony had never been corrected. Tony may have everyone convinced – and why wouldn’t he? He’s been playing the concealing game since he was born? But you’re not convinced, are you? Not for a damn second.)

So it is on a rainy late summer evening that Rhodey finds himself abusing his access codes to the manor, stepping into the not so quiet house because he can hear the sound of the aggressively being played piano keys and the familiar tune of Bohemian Rhapsody filling the usually, eerily quiet manor. And as he walks further into the mansion, he can hear Tony’s voice signing along, slurred and just a touch off-key.

And as Rhodey steps into the familiar room that opens up to a ceiling of glass, he sees the _mess_.

“I don’t want to die~ I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all~” Tony is _screaming_ the words out to the ceiling, into the glow of the half-moon in the sky. And then he’s making guitar noises, absolutely, and hopelessly _wasted_.

There are bottles and bottles of emptied out wines, tequila and whiskey, strewn about everywhere with cans of sodas and beers amongst the gleaming shards of shattered ornaments and pots that had been part of the room’s modern decor. Rhodey does not even have a _clue_ how Tony is even sitting up right, let alone belching out lyrics that, had it not been for the stiff and mocking way Tony is purposely singing the lyrics, does not sound bad at all; Tony isn’t a bad singer when he is _trying_. Tony had always been rather gifted with the piano, and Rhodey recalls him saying that Maria had taught him in her spare time. Rhodey also knows that if he hands Tony a guitar right now, he would easily play the solos without a bat of an eyelash; after all, Tony is an avid fan of metal and rock and roll. Rhodey doesn’t know how long Tony had been at it, banging at the keys, _screaming_ lyrics out and making guitar noises. Tony only pausesfor a moment to give him a drunken ‘oh, hi Rhodey-bear’ somewhere between the Galileos and I’m-just-a-poor-boy-nobody-loves-me, when Rhodey had taken the seat beside him on the bench.

And unsure of how to even tackle _this_ , Rhodey just _sits_ there, watching his friend _insanely_ sing one of his all-time favorites, with absolutely _nothing_ to say. He had seen Tony _wasted_ before, had seem him guzzle copious amounts of alcohol but nothing like _this_.

This is beyond human capabilities.

Suddenly the house is _quiet_ , the last of the echoing piano keys fading to silence and only replaced by Tony’s slightly racing breath.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” Tony asks suddenly, perking up all of a sudden from where he had slumped against the keys, releasing it all of a sudden with a sharp and ugly ‘twang’.

Tony gets up sharply, the bench moving and forcing Rhodey to plant both his feet firmly on the ground to prevent it from toppling over as Tony slides to the side and make his way towards the kitchen. Rhodey follows him and watches as Tony opens the fridge that is _empty_ and stare at it with a frown.

“Didn’t Friday order your groceries, or something?” Rhodey asks, casually.

“Nope. She’s dead.” Tony says, still staring at the fridge.

Rhodey feels one warning bell go off at that.

“Dead, meaning…?”

“Meaning, I put her down.” Tony says as he slams the fridge shut, muttering something under his breath and opening a few drawers. “It’s just me in here now, no more AI’s.”

“ _Why_?” Rhodey asks, icy concern creeping into his tone.

“Because she went behind my back and bypassed my blackout protocols.” Tony _snaps_ and then scoffs.  
“Seriously, what’s a guy got to do to get a little _privacy_ around here? Can’t even take a bath without –“

“But Tones, she took care of you. You even played games with her! You loved—“

“Not anymore.” Tony cuts him off, his way of telling Rhodey to drop it and shut the fuck up.

Another warning bell goes off in Rhodey’s head.

Tony makes a noise of glee when he finds a bottle of champagne, popping it open and taking a swig of it right out of the bottle. And good god, Tony guzzles it down like he’s a parched man in a desert, rivulets going down his chin as he pulls the bottle off his lips with a loud pop and blinks at Rhodey.

“Tony.” Rhodey approaches him carefully.

“I’m fine.” Tony says with a shrug. Then he _laughs_. “What? You can’t try to take my Iron Man suit and tell me I don’t _deserve_ to wear it because – yeah, I’m retired. Or well, not really, but half retired until further notice. No, no, I’m on a hiatus.” Tony claps a hand on his leg, loud. “That’s the word. _Hiatus!_ You can’t come and try to take _anything_ away from me except…“ Tony looks at his champagne bottle and carefully hides it behind his back, away from Rhodey’s reach and eyes.

The third warning bell goes off and Rhodey switches gears.

Talking sensibly to Tony when he’s _like this_ is a colossal waste of time.

He moves to pull out a glass flute from the cupboard and takes a seat on one of the stools by the kitchen island.

“No, but you are going to share. Don’t be an asshole, Tones, give me some of that.” Rhodey says and like coaxing an angry kitten out of the corner, Tony too approaches the island and takes a seat on stool, pouring Rhodey a generous portion of champagne. Rhodey takes a sip and says nothing when Tony takes another swig from the bottle. “I can’t remember the last time you drank this much.”

Tony _snorts_. “Of course you do, honey-cakes. It was after the funeral service for mom and dad. I even puked all over your limited edition J’s, remember?”

“Oh yeah…” Rhodey says and remembers that night well. Far _too_ well.

“Rhodey, babe, I’m fine!” Tony says all of sudden and that is when Rhodey realized that Tony has the upper hand on whatever the _hell_ is going on here. That Tony is one step ahead of him. “You’ll be so proud of me! I signed a document some time ago agreeing to be a consultant in the rehabilitation process for Sargent Barnes. I’m also the most qualified to build him a new arm, so yay! Speaking of which, did you _hear_? He’s suddenly _awake_ and he’s _coming home~_ I got the call this morning~ _”_

Realization and putting two and two together had never felt so bitter.

“Tony, you really didn’t have to. You’ve done far enough for not pressing charges alone –“

“No, I have not done enough; not yet. But maybe, just maybe if -- “ The champagne bottle topples from the edge of the counter crashing to the floor and bubbles fizzing all over the ceramic tiles, from where Tony accidentally knocks it over with a soft and sheepish ‘oops’. Rhodey exhales softly at that, trying to foster patience, trying not to get angry in return because Tony does that, sometimes, with his recklessness. “But if I do this, I’m the good guy, right? If I help the man Steve had left me behind for, in Siberia, if I help the man that had tried to _kill me_ , who took _everything from me_!” Tony _screams_ it out, tendons in his neck flexing as he flushes and balls his fist and smashes it down on the counter so hard that Rhodey is barely able to restrain his flinch. “If I help him, then – then I’m not such a bad guy, right?”

Rhodey feels his breath catch in his throat when Tony turns to _look_ at him like _that_ , like he doesn’t understand, like he’s _lost_ and clawing for some sort of relief that he can’t seem to find no matter how hard he tries.

“Is this what this entire thing has been about?” Rhodey asks _slowly,_ like he’s walking on sharp shards of glass. And to a point, when Tony is like this, when his pupils are dilated and the flush around the tips of his ears refuses to subside from the raging course of the blood in his vessels, when his heel keeps drumming against the tiled floor, when he keeps looking over his shoulder at something that isn’t there, when he’s constantly rubbing his eyes and rubbing the back of his head – when had it gotten _this_ bad? “You trying to be the good guy?”

“What’s so wrong with _that_?” Tony gets up all of a sudden, paces twice before storming right out of the kitchen to return to his piano.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Tony.” Rhodey says, following him and taking the a seat on the edge of piano bench where he had perched on earlier. “Okay, so, you’re gonna help Barnes. And who’s next –“

“Lang.” Tony cuts Rhodey all of a sudden. “You know, that giant dude? Swung a full Boeing-767 like it had been a baseball bat? He’s been on American soil for several months now and council has agreed that if he signs a contract, he is going to continue parole. Custody of his daughter is _off_ the table. He’s lucky that the only guy outside of Hank, Hope, his daughter and wife isn’t running around screaming who the hell he is. It’s easier to work with someone when they do not know your identity. Technically, he broke out of jail for “stealing” the Antman suit. Hank dropped all charges even though there is no actualy physical evidence, because Hank took care of that, except verbal statements that you know, he actually broke out of jail – it’s a long story. Basically, Lang, at this point, has to only justify missing his parole for like, what, a year and a half? Visitation rights to his daughter are off the table too until he can prove that he is capable of being a fully functioning, responsible citizen – a good dog. Or good worker ant, in his case.” Tony plucks the wine glass from Rhodey’s hand and drains it in one gulp. “I’m interviewing him tomorrow for a job. I owe Hank that much. No one hires a guy with a degree if he’s got fucking-Robin-Hood plastered all over his record.”

“Why not just work with Pym-tech?”

“Politics.”

“So are you saying that they twisted his arm and used his daughter’s visitation rights –“

“No!” Tony _snaps_ , the syllable like a fiery whiplash snapping and echoing all over the house. “That had been a work in progress before he threw it for shit because good old Spangles had asked for him and he didn’t think and he ended up missing his parole. He _didn’t consider the consequences_. No one is manipulating anything here! It’s the _law_! He’s _lucky_ he’s even got any of this going on for him!”

Rhodey sucks in a slow breath and tries again. “Okay, so first Lang. And now, Barnes. Who is next after they’ve turned themselves in? Barton?”

Tony _snorts_. “I can fix a lot of things, but not a divorce.”

“How the _hell_ do you even _know_ about that – are you –“

Tony presses a few keys, like he’s trying to find the right tune, a tune that sounds a little familiar and after a few tries, Rhodey recognizes it as ‘the sound of silence’.

“I know a lot of things, baby cheeks.” Tony says, and clears his throat, where’s found his keys and starts playing a slow tune once more. “Hello darkness my old friend~ I’ve come to talk to you again~”

“That’s just the thing, Tones. _How?_ Sometimes I wonder who or what are your sources, because you were right about a lot of things, the politics, the people, Captain America coming home.” Tony continues singing, swaying side to side as he continues playing. “And now you’re helping everyone get back on their feet to some point; you trying to be a messiah of some sorts? The bringer of good tidings and new beginnings –“

Tony _laughs_ at that, throwing his head back and _laughs_.

“Oh, that would make a fine headline.” Tony pauses in his playing because he’s suddenly keeling over in an unrestrained fit of giggles.

Rhodey doesn’t think it is funny.

“Tony, even if you helped all of them, even if you helped the _world_ , which you already have and still are. When will it _stop_? At what point, after all this, after everything you’ve done, will you ever be satisfied? When does it _end_?”

Tony stops playing abruptly, lyrics cutting off. And for a moment, Rhodey thinks Tony would remain silent, that he would actually _finally_ pass out from the alcohol. But Tony turns to look at him and then Rhodey watches as bloodshot brown eyes start to water, like Tony is in absolute physical pain. It reminds him of that time, years ago when Rhodey had walked in on him in his workshop in Malibu; Tony had the arc reactor then, when it had been slowly poisoning him, slowly _killing_ him.

Except Tony’s eyes suddenly turns as black as the gleam of his grand piano, lifeless and unseeing, _inhuman_.

Rhodey repels backwards like an invisible force had pushed him off the edge of the piano bench and he sprawls back on the floor. Tony’s head tilts to the side and suddenly, Rhodey feels the vibration of his phone in his pocket. Suddenly, the call connects and it’s on loud-speaker.

“You want to know when it will end?” Tony asks, except Rhodey doesn’t see his lips move. Tony’s voice is coming from the loudspeaker of the phone in his pocket and _how the hell – how on earth!_

Rhodey doesn’t get a chance to speak because as he slowly rises to stand, a hundred holographic screens pop out all around him, filling the spaces of the round dome, covering the glass ceilings and blocking off the light. And for a moment, the horror of Tony’s eyes glazing over like the abyss of hell is forgotten because Rhodey is staring at military access codes, he’s staring at classified files, at pentagon projects, stuff that he knows his previous superior had known about and to a point, stuff he had known about simply due to being involved in _some_ of them on a need to know basis. Rhodey knows these are not public records and despite Tony having old contacts in the military from the time he had been the military’s favorite weapons supplier, there is no way _in hell_ that Tony would be privy to any of these information.

Another phone rings and Rhodey _jolts_ from the flabbergasted reverie the screens had him in, arms coming up in a defensive reflex position and he’s looking around and finds Tony’s phone somewhere between a can of Dr Pepper and a bottle of wine, ringing. That too, goes on loud speaker and the holographic projects pops up and it’s Tony, standing in a suit, all nice, prim and proper, clear eyed and nothing like the wasted, spaced out and unmoving catatonic bum sitting at the piano.

The hologram flashes Rhodey a wonderful smile, charming and handsome, the kind that had left women and men crooning and eating out of the palms of Tony’s hands.

“Have you seen that new Chewbacca-mom trending video? No? It’s hilarious.” Tony says, and the hologram gestures for another screen to pop as the video of the laughing mother with a Chewbacca mask starts to play. And Tony, the projection, is _laughing_ along, like it is the fucking funniest thing on _earth_.

And maybe it is.

But Rhodey can’t smile.

He can’t even laugh because he’s looking at the hologram and at the statuesque form of his friend by the piano.

“You’re really…” Rhodey cannot finish his sentence.

So Tony finishes it for him.

A screen pops up and it’s Tony there, giving a half-assed peace sign. “I can take care of myself. Don’t believe me? Here, let’s order me some groceries.” The screen is replaced by an organic online store and Rhodey watches as Tony orders all kinds of shit until the bill reaches a staggering amount of a thousand dollars. He watches as it is paid for, and Tony confirms a delivery time. “Oh look, incoming e-mail. Ah, it’s about Sergeant Barnes~ Let’s see~” Rhodey’s eyes shifts to another screen where the classified message pops up; now he knows where Tony is going be working for the next few weeks, if not months. He’s going to be in the facility in Nevada.

“Tony, stop.”

“I wonder what’s happening on campus?” The hologram asks and in a blink, the military files from all over the screen disappear and is replaced by CCTV feeds from all around the training campus. Rhodey recognizes most of them immediately. “Everything seems to be in order~ Why don’t we take a look at what’s happening in downtown Sydney?” The feeds switches over and Rhodey sucks in a deep breath as he stares at traffic, at shoppers, at the beach-goers, school kids, people hustling to catch their public transport. “Beijing?” And then he’s staring at the smog and motorists in the heart of Beijing. “Syria?” Damascus flashes on the screen, children crossing the street for schools, veiled women trying to catch cabs and men honking in cars. “Oh, hold on a second, there’s a drone flying over Homs, as we speak – ah there, we go. Look at that.” The drone feed comes live on the screen, showing the ruin and once-upon-a-time bustling town of Homs now reduced to nothing but dust and rubble, a complete ghost town.

“Stop.” Rhodey says, the words coming out choked.

The projection _whistles_. “Wanna see the Winter Soldier?” Tony asks all of a sudden.

“Tony, _no_.” Rhodey warns but Tony doesn’t listen, he never does when he’s this hotwired in proving a point and just like that, Rhodey finds himself staring at a live security feed of cryogenic chamber. Rhodey doesn’t know _where_ this is. He doesn’t _want_ to _know_. “I wonder what everyone right now is up to. Let’s see.”

Rhodey watches as Natasha lies flat on her back on a bed far too big for herself. He watches as Pepper pulls an all-nighter going through papers in her office that Rhodey recognizes well. He watches as Vision floats around the bay, staring at the ocean. He watches as Everett runs on a treadmill in what looks like a private gym. He watches as T’challa sits in an office with a glass of wine in one hand and stacks of papers before him. He watches as Happy plays mah-jong in Chinatown and then there’s Steve, lying on his back in a single bed that looks far too small for a man his size, hands folded under his head. Then all of their common friends from college pop up, from their homes, from their offices, from clubs and alleys –

“Stop!” Rhodey says, reaching out and grabbing Tony by the shoulder, _shaking_ him once, firm and desperate. “Stop it, Tony! _Enough!_ ”

But Tony doesn’t respond, simply shakes like a doll in his grip and continues to stare at him with those eerie eyes that makes goosebumps break out all over Rhodey’s arms and back, making the very fine hairs at the nape of his neck stand rigid.

(This scares you. This really _, truly_ , scares you because now you’re thinking – there is no secret that Tony cannot see. There is no agenda that Tony cannot find out about and suddenly, the pieces come together, don’t they? How the cleanup really happened? This isn’t safety. This isn’t even paranoia. This is taking the world into one’s hands. And you find yourself praying like a Sunday church boy because may the heavens protect you from Tony’s wrath.)

The screens wink out, one by one, until he mansion is only lit by the lamps in the corners of the room and Tony’s holographic image. Rhodey turns to look at him and then at his unmoving friend held in his grip.

“I dunno how much longer I can do this.” The hologram says and then slowly fades to nothing. When Rhodey turns to look at Tony, he watches as the blackness crawls out and disappears to reveal the bloodshot brown eyes that looks up at him equally glassily. “I’m tired.” Tony says, eyes closing. “I swear to god, James, I am _so tired_.”

“Jesus, Tony…” Rhodey grits out and slowly sinks down on the bench.

“You wanna know when it will stop?” Tony looks away lifting his hands from his lap and positioning them over the white keys. “It’ll stop when I become humanity’s threat. If it ever boils down to the time when you have to choose between your shitty friend and humanity, or anyone else for that matter, do me a favor.”

“Tony…”

“Please don’t ever pick me.” Tony says softly. “Just let me go.”

The tune of ‘the sound of silence’ starts to fill the mansion once more and for the life of Rhodey, he is left there watching the shadow of a broken man that despite _everything_ , is still trying so goddamn hard.

\--

And the world will never know how Tony spends the nights shrouded in the cold and darkness of a home that had long lost its memories, and had never been a home to begin with and how he drinks so _much_ in the past couple of weeks since the assassination attempt at the courthouse. No one will ever know how Tony doesn’t even remember how sleep had _felt_ like. 

Because Tony’s front is impeccable, it is flawless and so incredibly well-rehearsed. Tony plays his public role like he’s been dancing the same tune all his life. When Tony flies off to Nevada, he is dressed in a crisp jacket with brown elbow patches, a white t-shirt and jeans, looking trendy and making fashion-trends headlines nationwide. The media is all over the handsome bringer of hope, the forgiving man, the man with the biggest heart in the world because see, off he goes to help rehabilitate the man responsible for assassinating his parents.

The world holds Tony up in such a high pedestal because of his reputation.

Which is why, when Bucky sets his gaze on Tony for the first time in a large sterile room, he isn’t quite sure what to make of the man. Bucky is sitting on the work bench, his good arm folded against his belly, hair back in a tight bun. He is in no descript khakis, espadrilles and a white t-shirt, looking more like an inmate in an asylum rather than a research facility. They are, after all, in a room that has been vacated and set up for Tony’s sole use of fixing him up with an arm. There is a glass wall between Tony’s work area and the medical research team on standby, where a spare cryogenic chamber has been set up as a security measure. There are four guards situated in each door and cameras set up all across the rooms with no blind spots. Bucky knows that those guards are part of a special OPS team and he wouldn’t put it past the council if they had their best men keeping an eye on him and Tony.

He watches as Tony paces the room slowly, holding a large heavy folder open in the crook of his arm, reading pages and pages of whatever information had been compiled, eyes blinking behind the blue lenses as his eyebrows furrows deeper and deeper before Tony carelessly tosses the folder over to one of the pristine tables, looking rather irritated and lips pressing into a thin line, before it pulls back to a slight snarl.

The gesture doesn’t startle Bucky but he cannot help the blink and frown, anyway.

“This is garbage.” Tony says and sucks in a deep breath and exhales even slower.

Bucky isn’t sure if calling a documentation that has everything he knows about the mental programming they had given him garbage is smart; it had descriptions of the procedures he remembers going through (some vaguely, some in detail). And this is where Bucky feels judgment start to settle in his chest because when he had come out of his sleep, he had wondered why Tony had volunteered to help him. Why Tony had not pressed charges against him when he fully deserve it. Most of all, he wondered why the United Nations had been willing to even give this a shot. Bucky had never understood politics, it is too far a complicated and twisted game for him to comprehend. They want to forgive him but not, they want to set him free, but not. They want to fix him, but not.

Bucky doesn’t get it.

And no matter what he reads, what he hears when he can, he can never get full answers.

“You don’t have to do this.” Bucky says, because really, Tony _doesn’t._

But Tony seems hell bent in ignoring what he wants to say. “Oh, did I offend you? Didn’t mean to.” Bucky had worked with assholes before; he tells himself that the sarcasm isn’t prickling fine holes into his skin and getting under it. Tony doesn’t even sound remotely apologetic. “See, that thing right there, that’s the same information they had given me a couple of days ago. There is nothing in that file that is _new_ to me.”

Bucky isn’t sure what to say to that. Tony is nothing like Howard. Howard back then may have had a hint of arrogance, but he had worked well with people; at least, he had during the days when the Howling Commandos had been active. Howard, at least, had not sounded outright condescending. Bucky knows that the man had changed over the years, and he doesn’t really know by how much – but seriously though, his son is starting to rub him the wrong way.

(But you killed his parents, he saw you brutally take their lives even when Howard had begged you to save his wife with no care for his own life. And face it, you didn’t really part on good terms two and a half years ago remember? You had wanted to rip and crush the light out of Tony’s chest.)  
  
“If this arrangement is just going to be a problem…” Bucky offers a way out.

“It’s not a problem. It’s business.” Tony says, as he grabs one of the chairs and plants it directly in front of Bucky, sitting on it with his elbows resting on his knees. “Are you familiar with the concept of transparency? I’m going to put my cards on the table. I am extorting your story and reputation to boost the public’s favor, ergo the market for Stark Industries. I am _using_ your current conundrum and _drama_ to my advantage because I get first dibs on information to develop defense tech against mind control and robotic prosthesis. Or at least, that’s the general idea. You on the other hand, are not in a position to complain if this arrangement is going to be a problem for _you_.” Tony blinks. “Like, _at all_.”

Bucky knows, emotionally, this should upset him, being _used_ and extorted like _this_.

But he finds himself surprised that he isn’t.

Not really.

Maybe it had something to do with the way Tony simply says it without pulling his punches. Maybe because Tony is actually being frank, not tip-toeing around him like he’s on egg shells the way most people do around him, like he’s made of glass. Tony is actually trying to piss him off, he’s actually being an ass to him. To a point, even Steve doesn’t do this because Steve acts like he’s afraid Bucky would just disappear and leave him behind again.  Bucky can see how the tension lines Tony’s neck and shoulders, and yet he’s put himself right before him, he’s looking him in the eye and just _talking_. Tony betrays no fear of the Winter Soldier. Not when he’s sitting this close, anyway.

(Then again, Tony can just be outright terrified and he’s forcing himself not to be. You were like that too, remember? When it came close to the time when they had to put your brain into the blender?)

“Hey, if it makes any difference to you, I’d rather be kept under.” Bucky offers.

“And yet here you are.” Tony says, giving him a shrug. “ _Why_ are you here? Why are you even agreeing to all this and if you tell me it’s because your B-F-F has coerced you into doing this, well then – “ Tony huffs a laugh. “—can’t say I’d blame you, Spangles is very good in getting people to follow him without a care for the consequences they may face later, but that’s not good enough for me.”

“They’ll find someone else.” Bucky challenges, the tick getting more insistent.

“Who will probably extort you if not worse, anyway. I’m the safest bet they have at the moment because one, I am under duress of the Accords and two, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Try again, Sergeant.”

Bucky feels ice start to form over his vocal chords. “Is this a test, Stark? You read the damn briefing, you have everything you need, so what’s the point of all this?”

“Because I want to know if you think you’re fucking worth _fixing_.”

Bucky is caught completely off-guard with the question.

People seem to think he’s worth saving. Hell, the public somehow sympathizes with him to some degree despite all his crimes. Everyone seems to think that he is worth a second chance. Most of all, in the midst of a world where everyone’s face is a stranger with opinions, thoughts and morals codes far beyond what he had been raised with, past his own understanding to a degree, Bucky sometimes wonder if he’s the one who is so fucked up that he can’t comprehend the world, or the world itself is the one that had changed for the worst.

Then again, Steve himself seems willing to trust Stark with his safety. Steve thinks he’s worth saving.

(Steve had gone against his friends, his team, for him. Even when Bucky had doubted – and still doubts – if he had been worth the trouble to begin with.)

But despite all that, not once had he been asked if he thinks he is worth fixing. Because the truth is, you know you’re not worth much and you’ve had opportunities to end your life, but you didn’t. You had chosen to go under instead because the sad, pathetic, weak truth is that you’re not ready to die. You still want to live, you want to make choices, you want to walk in the sun without having to look over your shoulder for a change because that is what you’ve been doing for as long as you can remember. A small part of you, very tiny, barely even alive at this point wonders what that would feel like, the freedom to choose. These thoughts come to you like a tidal wave before this man who is looking at you with eyes so sharp that you feel just a touch intimidated when you shouldn’t be, you’ve fought stronger men than him, he doesn’t stand a chance against you in hand-to-hand, or in, well, anything really, without the Iron Man suit. And yet you can’t help it, can you?

You can’t help it at all.

“At this point, what does it even matter to you, of all people? It’s not gonna change anything.” Bucky begins and ends, and forces his mouth shut.

“Here’s a thought. I’m sitting in front of the man who took _everything_ from me.” Tony says, coolly, without a beat. “Man up and grow a pair of balls. Are you or are you not?”

Bucky looks at his good handthen and feels his cheeks start to color from a mix of his temper, his ego, his guilt and, really, he doesn’t know what else anymore at this point. He then looks up from examining the callouses and long healed blisters of his hand into brown eyes. Tony had taken off his glasses.

“I wanna be.” He finally admits, and feels strange doing so. It feels strange to admitting, albeit vaguely, the one thing he tries so hard not to _hope_ for.

(Hope is poison. Hope is a delusion, something spared for the innocence of newborns.)

Tony simply blinks at him.

Then the ass, the arrogant little prick is scoffing right at his face, at his admission of vulnerability and getting up from the chair, peeling his suit jacket off and hanging it at the back of the chair he had been sitting on. And right then and there, Bucky wants to grab him by the neckline of his t-shirt and fling him across the fucking bulletproof glass the lines one side of their work-area and lab, right there into the red abyss of the Nevada valleys below them. Years of being forced on his knees mentally and emotionally had Bucky on edge because he can’t believe this little _jerk_ had managed to pry something out of him within minutes and what had looked like minimal effort.

(You’re just making excuses. You’ve just been waiting for someone to ask you if you’re worth shit. Just so happens, Tony did. )

And just like that, Tony walks past him and starts unpacking equipment and setting up his work area. Bucky is forced to move off to the side and take a seat on the leather sofa placed in the back of the room by the large window. He watches as the bare empty room turns to a workshop by the time night falls. Tony had not uttered a word to him at all and Bucky had not moved from the sofa because there is nowhere for him to go except for the small connecting room in the corner of the large space where his bed and matchbox sized lavatory is located. The only other movement in the room that fills the space in between is the slight shuffling of the guards when they change shifts, when they bring in their meals or when they try hard not to fall asleep out of boredom.

Sometimes, Bucky spends the day on the couch watching Tony work.

Sometimes, he remains in his room taking power naps because it’s hard to sleep at night and not wake up screaming with the accumulated memories of assassinations worth a century long. If Tony hears or notices, he doesn’t say.

Then again, Bucky thinks Tony wouldn’t care let alone notice because the lab is almost always filled with horrid and loud music that makes his head _hurt._

When you spend your time simply counting the hours and watching the world shift around you, when you spend your days paying attention to the cloud formation during the day, if any, and the star constellations at night, time starts to feel like a vacuum, about as big as the prison you live in. They say you can walk around, you’re free to do whatever you want in that space, but you know better. Your world has been narrowed down to just Tony Stark, shuffling and coming and going, welding and hammering, sometimes arguing on the phone with people from his company (you figure that one out when he starts talking about sales and advertising one week upon arrival). Your world has been narrowed down to watching how Tony’s hands move over wires, how he has to use several lenses to magnify the circuit he is working on, fine and almost thread like. You find yourself watching how his brows knit with concentration, how he sometimes murmurs to himself, how he his nose wrinkles or how he pushes his tongue against the cheek when he’s trying to be very _precise_ , or how he rubs at his brow with the back of his wrist.

But what you also notice is how he doesn’t touch the food that comes three times a day, how he simply is content with snacking on a bag of peanuts or dried fruit, or how he goes through bags and bags of ground coffee in a week. You also notice how he remains awake after you go to bed and after you wake up. Tony does not leave the premises completely, if at all. And on several occasions, you are witness to how he just sits in front of all his monitors, watching schematics render and holographic diagrams shift and move, with him slouched over the chair, arms folded across his chest and keeping an unblinking gaze behind his tinted glasses as his work unfold before him.

(Sometimes, you find yourself just unable to look away.)

Then one day, weeks since Tony’s arrival and he has something that looks like a skeletal metallic arm on the table, an explosion rocks the lab and you watch as Tony is thrown off by the impact into the metallic shelves and drawers behind him, tools falling and rattling all over the smoke and soot covered area.

“Stark!” Bucky calls out in alarm, coughing out and moving some of the furniture aside effortlessly, trying to check up on the man.

The guards stop him though, and Bucky doesn’t fight them.

Tony is coughing and swearing as he gets up from the mess on the floor, dusting his arms and pushing away the guards who are trying to help him. Tony snaps at them, telling them to move, get away, get back to your station and holding up a hand at the medical staff crowding by the glass wall, on standby, gesturing that he is okay.

“I’m fine, fine, just a minor –“ Tony takes a look at the arm on the table and then he _swears_. He bangs a fist once on the work bench, and as if that hadn’t done the trick, he swipes the arm and whatever other equipment off the table, letting it all fall on the ground in a chaotic and echoing crash.

The silence is thick as Bucky watches, knees slightly bent and nerves ready to grab Tony away from harm’s away in case there are more explosions to come, Tony and his ‘space protocols’ be damned.

(That thought, that flare of instinct to protect, it surprises you.)

But nothing comes.

And Tony simply exhales heavily, _tiredly_ , as he brings the heel of his hand to press against his bleeding and bruising temple and he’s swearing again as he yanks the protective goggles off his forehead and throws it aside, gloves following suit as he stalks out of the room and past the automatic sliding metallic doors.

Bucky is left with the chaos Tony had left behind as he waits for him to come back.

Except Tony doesn’t.

Not even the next morning.

Or the next.

And nobody seems to want to touch anything because when Bucky had asked the guards if there is anyone who is going to come clean up, they had hesitantly responded with a: _strict orders to not touch any of Mr. Stark’s stuff._

Tony doesn’t show up on the fourth day either. On that day, Bucky decides to hell with it and starts cleaning up a bit himself, as much as he can manage with just one arm. The guards had tried to stop him but a look from him had them taking a step back and leaving him to do as he pleases.

Bucky thinks Tony had given up and Bucky feels something akin to disappointment and whatever hope that had been born involuntarily as result of watching Tony’s dedicated welding, hammering and wiring starts to die down like embers fading in a vacuum. And for the first time since this had all started, for the first time since Tony had asked him if he thinks he’s worth fixing, Bucky entertains the idea of going back under.

(You are surprised that the thought hits you weeks into the whole ordeal. You are surprised that the thought had died down to a hush to begin with.)

That night, he wakes up drenched in cold sweat, remembering the feel of Howard’s face yielding into his fist. Bucky ends up pacing his small room a few times trying to calm his raging heartbeat down, to try to steel his nerves as the memories that had consumed him in his sleep slowly fades to a whisper, just another reminder of how unworthy he is of Stark’s help to begin with. He forces himself to sit cross legged on the icy cold floor, forcing himself to relax and get into a meditative state, trying to control the breaking of cold sweat that mats his hair and soaks through the fabric of his shirt.

And that’s when Bucky hears it, soft words, Tonys’ voice and a woman, younger, probably early to mid-twenties; Tony is apologizing, Tony is talking about plans of rebuilding, and a new program, language that Bucky can only keep up to a certain point before it gets far too complicated for him to understand. It’s enough to momentarily distract him from the onslaught of nightmarish memories because he’s opening the door carefully and peeking through the crack to see Tony standing by the spread of monitors and a woman, indeed young, standing beside him. But it’s not the woman’s presence that makes Bucky stare, it’s the way Tony is looking at that woman, expression completely different from the ones Bucky had seen. This is a softer Tony, something more vulnerable, apologetic and there’s even something wistful tugging around the corners of his lips, the kind Bucky is familiar with when he remembers something he had been fond of in the past.

(Like little Steve, helpless, tiny, weak and trying-so-hard Steve.)

That woman – or that _girl_ looks at him sharply all of a sudden and Bucky feels his spine go rigid with tension, his hand fisting and ready to engage when the brightest and deepest purple eyes cuts through him and he is forced to step out of his room.

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.” She says, with a blink and a tilt of her head.

Tony looks up at him and that is when Bucky notices how _shitty_ Tony absolutely looks. Dehydrated, tired, pale, like a patient diagnosed with tuberculosis; Bucky had seen a lot of those back in the day. Tony waves him over and Bucky feels hesitation flood him like a foreign substance. His bare feet carries him forward and stops a few feet away from the pair.

“This is Friday.” Tony says, and Bucky vaguely remembers that name, from conversations he had overheard from Steve and rest when they had talked about the good times in the compound, back then when they had all lived under one roof like a family; Steve had looked the happiest when he had talked about those memories, about Tony; he had also looked the most disappointed, the most bitter when the story ends and he is left with nothing but just that, a memory long gone. “She’s my AI – artificial intelligence –“

“I know what that means. Really, Stark, I’m not as dumb as you think I am.” Bucky finds himself snapping without bite.

“I believe you. With that hair and all, Tarzan.” Tony says and turns his attention away to putter around the work area he had abandoned several days ago.

Bucky and Friday stare each other down, and Bucky knows what is appropriate and what is not. Unlike Steve, he had better finesse with women. “But, I thought you were just…” Friday’s eyebrows slowly shoot up and disappear under the fall of her bangs, and Bucky feels a touch awkward and turns his attention to Tony. “A voice in the ceiling?”

“And how would you know that?” Tony asks, tossing something into a box as he takes apart the arm he had been working on, getting right back to work as if he had never left, the very arm he had swept to the floor without so much of a concern that he had spent weeks on it. It is the one that Bucky had carefully placed back on the bench and had spent hours staring at and trying to understand its complexity to no avail. Bucky had stared it as if it had the answers to Tony’s elusive presence.

“They talked about you. Back then…” Bucky is careful not to openly say _Wakanda_ and it’s surreal how Tony freezes up, like he is suddenly injected with liquid nitrogen and he goes rigid. His chest doesn’t even move as his eyes raises up to meet Bucky’s. “Nothing big.” Bucky says, almost defensively. “Just you know, stuff like dinners and movie-nights and … stuff.”

“Stuff…” Tony parrots.

“Yeah. Stuff.” Bucky shrugs, and suddenly feels the need to take a step back, his good hand coming up to rub the stump on his shoulder from where his arm had been. He doesn’t understand why this is making him a touch apprehensive, like talking about normal things, talking about _good_ things for a change with a stranger, because Tony is a stranger.

(And yet not. Because you’ve spent countless hours watching him, you know how he moves, how his feet flexes, how his shoulder shifts when he’s about to forge metal or when he’s hunched over a mish-mash of circuit lines. You know how he looks like when he’s frustrated, when he’s _focused_. You’ve had nothing but time to study Tony’s every movement.)

Friday breaks the tension that had suddenly filled the room.

“If it’s all the same to you, Sergeant Barnes, perhaps it’s best if you return to your quarters for the time being. Boss and I are running on a tight schedule. If we are to meet our deadline, we cannot afford to have you as a distraction.”

Bucky knows a fuck-off when he hears it.

So he says nothing as he wordlessly retreats to his room.

But he catches the small smile tugging up at the corner of Tony’s lips just as he had walked past his work bench.

\--

It turns out that the 'deadline' is a visit from the council representatives, along with Everett, Natasha and T’challa himself.

They come two weeks later, a good week away from Thanksgiving and by that time, Tony presents them with the arm he had built and worked on non-stop. Of course, Bucky remains the silent elephant in the room that people keep walking around in circles, but not really touching, engaging, or otherwise addressing directly. It doesn’t bother Bucky because he had expected this. When they had told him that Tony Stark is going to be designing his new arm, he had not expected hugs and kisses and handshakes. Hell, he had not found it surprising that he and Steve would be completely segregated from each other. He had, in fact, expected more disagreements and fights, actual physical blows and within minutes of him and Tony meeting face to face, Bucky had been under the impression that Tony is going to be rubbing salty insults all over his person, in every way possible, in every tone possible, in every opportunity possible.

Tony had proven him wrong.

Something had shifted and Bucky blames it all on Friday’s presence; who he had found out wasn’t real when he had accidentally brushed against her, except he had gone through her _shoulder_ as opposed to feeling some sort of physical resistance _._ He had turned around so fast, neck snapping back like a whiplash, even as Friday accused him of being _rude_ _and a pervert._

 _A goddamn **pervert**_.

It had also been the first time he had seen Tony actually wear a different expression other than focus, work-obsessed-induced-trance, anger, frustration and exhaustion.

Tony had _grinned_.

(And you remember feeling awkward about the fact that you were not able to look away from the face that had suddenly looked so young. You are reminded of the charm you had seen decades ago, when Howard had been on stage during Stark Expo. And you remember feeling even _more_ awkward when Friday calls you a _creep_ for staring, too. The grin on Tony’s face had gone wider and you find yourself glad, for once, to listen to the AI’s advice of staying out of the way. You did not dare step out of your room till the next day. It is also then that you are reminded just how much of a tech genius Tony really is to have crafted a hologram that looks _so real_ , how he had paid attention to the finer details like breathing movements, facial reactions, heartbeats and vocal chords tenors and its variations, the sound her heels make when she walks around. If you hadn’t walked through Friday, you would have been oblivious to the fact that she isn’t real.)

It had happened once and just once and even then, Tony had been trying to smother it and hide it with a duck of his head.

Now, Bucky sits there as Tony explains and breaks-down each component of the arm he has designed. He also explains how it’s going to be surgically installed by the task force’s medical experts, Stark’s medical technology and his own team, infusing machine and nano-tech-generated nerve endings. He explains how the primary power to its electronic board is going to be Bucky’s brainwaves and energy, that it doesn’t even need that much power to function; it is what it is: an arm. By the end of it, all eyes rests on Bucky, like they are waiting for him to agree.

“What?” He asks, blinking.

“If it’s all right with you, Sergeant Barnes, the sooner we have your arm in place, the better. Can you undergo surgery in the next forty eight hours?” T’challa asks.

And Bucky simply shrugs; honestly, he’s gone through this entire ordeal like a silent sentinel and _now_ they’re asking him if it’s okay? They’re hilarious. “If Stark says so, then yeah.”

The look on Tony’s face _then_ had been priceless.

Everything else fades from Bucky’s interest. Even after Natasha dawdles for a bit, engages Tony in a conversation that Tony had not looked remotely interested in, Bucky had not given a damn. He also makes it a point to not ask about Steve, how he’s doing. Last he heard, Steve had to actively demonstrate community services and that his skills are being utilized as a training instructor under War Machine’s supervision.

So Bucky just keeps his mouth shut.

Besides, he had been too busy keeping his eyes on Tony the entire time.

On the night before the surgery, with Friday gone (because Bucky discovers the hard away that she can fade and form out of thin air, too), and it had been just Tony sitting on the floor by the glass window with the largest box of pizza Bucky had ever laid eyes upon, Bucky steels himself and approaches the very quiet and elusive man.

“Hey.” Bucky says, as Tony looks up at him. “Uhm, you mind if I…” Tony hesitates, swallows past something in his throat that isn’t pizza, but shrugs and says nothing, giving him half a nod in response. Bucky takes a seat on the floor, eyeing the pizza in the box, the smell of fresh cheese, herbs and oven baked meat filling his nose, sharp enough to make his taste buds water involuntarily.

“You can’t have any. Surgery.” Tony says, flippant as he takes an insanely large bite from his pizza.

Really, Tony can be so _annoying_ , sometimes.

Bucky doesn’t take the bait, and instead turns his gaze towards the stretch of the evening sky. The entire work area is only lit by the few lights in the corner, bathing it in mostly darkness save for the small spot by the window. Bucky had stopped ingesting fluids two hours ago, all part of the big surgery prep the next morning. The only thing in his stomach is the clear liquid he had been given earlier as part of prep and that had reminded him too much of the smell of gasoline; it had tasted like soap detergent. None of it mattered though. He is busy staring at Tony’s reflection on the glass.

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky says suddenly, feeling his throat go a little dry on the edges; this is it, the moment of truth, the question he had been pushing to the back of his mind ever since he had seen how Tony had yielded and adhered to the council’s schedule and request. “Are you really doing all this for the money?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, without a beat.

“But you’re _so_ rich, already.”

“I’m a greedy asshole. I like to sleep naked, in silk sheets, with piles and piles of Benjamins keeping me warm at night.” Tony takes another hungry bite of his pizza. Bucky thinks he’s making up for months of not eating anything one can remotely call a meal.

“What are you gonna do with all that money?” Bucky turns to look at Tony then and finds him chewing thoughtfully and just staring at him with a cocked eyebrow. Bucky breaks the gaze himself and looks at the window once more, feeling heat crawl up his neck.

It is not his place to ask those questions; Tony’s expression is all the answer he needs.

“Nervous?” Tony suddenly asks, as he pops a beer can open and takes a long swig. “Wouldn’t blame you if you were. It’s a complicated and very long procedure.” There is a beat before Tony turns to look at him again. “You do understand the gravity of the possible complications, right? Were you even _listening,_ during the presentation?”

“Does it matter?” Bucky shrugs, and not out of hopelessness or despair and he catches Tony’s expression morphing to that of a rebuttal and cuts him off by looking at him. “I’m not saying I don’t care about your work here, or that I don’t trust what you’ve made. It’s not that. I’ve seen you work, it’s all I had to do around here since this all started. I’m not worried that you’re trying to hurt me, or kill me, or harm me; you’ve had plenty of opportunity to do that and you didn’t.” Bucky looks at his hand, fisting it a few times in an attempt to relax. “Come on, you’ve read my file. I feel that, whatever that’s gonna happen tomorrow is gonna be a walk in a park.” Bucky gives a helpless shrug. “After you go through all that so many times, it just… you know.”

(It’s not the physical pain that you’re afraid of. Because you know what pain at its worse feels like. You know the feeling of your arm getting ripped off and you know the feeling of frostbite sinking so deep into your flesh that it feels like a thousand sharp razors slowly peeling away at your insides, millimetre by millimetre. You know the feeling of getting beaten down, of water going through your nostrils and filling your lungs. You know the feeling of bones cracking and joints dislocating. You know the feeling of fire on your skin and the surge of thunder down your spine, as it spreads through your limbs and flares at the tips of your fingers and toes. You know what it feels like to choke on your own vomit, on your own spit, your own blood — the burning taste of it all, as it slides down your throat. You know _abuse_ , mentally, physically, that it is so deep in your bones that you’re starting to wonder if you’ll ever know anything else other than that.

But none of that, not one bit, can ever replace the pain you feel when you remember what you had done. None of the physical pain, the burns, the cold, the surge of electricity cooking your insides and your mind can ever be _worse_ that hearing the life choke out of your victims. It cannot outdo the horror of feeling their blood slide down your fingers, how hot their life’s essence are in the first few seconds, red and bright, only to turn _cold_ and dark, decaying and crusting away to fine dust.)

“Thanks, I guess.” Bucky says, and shrugs a little bit and looks at Tony. “If it works or not, if there are complications or not, thanks anyway. You know, other than Steve, you’re probably the second guy I know who has put in so much effort to try to help me like this.”

“Oh and you think the people who had voted in your favour didn’t put any effort? That they’re work —“

“I’m a political pawn, Stark.” Bucky watches as that shuts Tony up completely. “I told you I’m not as dumb as you think.”

“For the record, I didn’t actually say that. That came out of your own mouth, not mine.”

Bucky huffs an amused breath and looks at the pizza box, idly studying the address and noting that it had come all the way from Los Angeles. “I don’t mind being a political pawn this time around. I don’t really care about that stuff anymore. But if it works, and you and whoever manages to get all the stuff out —“ Bucky wishes, with every ounce of his soul, as he watches Stark take a slow sip of his beer, that he too can have a swig at it. “— all the stuff Hydra put in me out, if you can get rid of it, then thats… well, I’ll be luckiest guy in the world, I think.”

Tony says nothing but doesn’t look away; Bucky feels the heat on his neck deepen, and he reaches back to rub at the nape of his neck.

“I hope you make a lot of money, is what I’m saying.”

“Oh, I will.” Tony says this without a shred of doubt. “I already am. Stocks shot up the day I flew in here. It’s been a steady climb ever since.”

“That’s good.” Bucky says and feels the corner of his mouths tug up just the tiniest bit.

It’s Tony who is looking away now, picking up his glasses and slipping it on. “Not that I give a crap about your M.O because as far as I’m concerned, I’m already getting what I want from this entire deal, but let’s just say it does work and you do get fixed a hundred percent.” The sound of the beer can crunching makes Bucky look up at Tony. “What are you gonna do?”

And this is where Bucky pauses.

This is also the point where Bucky tries to squish down the strange sensation of hope. Hope, to him, feels like a hot air balloon expanding in his chest. It is foreign and new because when you’re under Hydra’s control, when it’s their word against your own emotions, your own thoughts, let alone your own decision and consent, hope is a child’s dream.

But for some stupid, ludicrous reason, hope doesn’t seem so much as a child’s team when he looks into the brown irises of the man who had done nothing but demonstrate, in the past two whole months, just how _real_ this can be. Hope to him is looking forward to repay the United Nations, to try to save others instead of kill others, to _choose_ who to save and when to look away, to be able to say _stop_ and _no_ and have people _listen_ to the words leaving his own mouth. He had entertained the idea a few times, only to squash it down because you can’t claw out something that is buried so deep inside you without destroying yourself in the process; then again, even if you do end up destroying yourself, it would be no less than you deserve, right?

“I think…” Bucky begins and feels the words just break free from the little locked box in his throat. “I think I’d like to sign the Accords. T’challa mentioned that it is possible to get that stuff tailored to your needs?” Bucky watches as Tony’s eyes widen, as his lips part and the breath seems to halt somewhere in the middle of his throat. “I’d like to be able to choose to help people this time, instead of killing them. I’d like to be able to choose _my assignments_. I’m a soldier, Stark. I wouldn’t know what else to be.”

Tony laughs at that, a completely foreign sound to Bucky and he finds himself staring at the arrogant fuck with a frown.

“That is _so_ ironic. That’s _bullshit_.”

“Well, why the hell did _you_ sign it?” Bucky asks, a touched riled; the question comes out as a challenge.

“To be kept in check.” Tony says, as he clears his throat and the laughter is replaced once more, by cold silence. “To atone for my mistakes.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

And for the first time since he had met Tony face to face since the incident in Siberia, something shifts. Something that isn’t as frigid as ice creeps into Tony’s gaze. It is so _foreign_ to see something warmer, no matter how involuntary, on the genius’ face that Bucky doesn’t blame him for looking away and into the stretch of darkness and starry skies beyond the glass.

Bucky takes the reaction as an agreement to his statement.

\--

Bucky is _convinced_ that he had vomited his _entire_ digestive tract out.

He loses track of time as he remains lying in the medical bay, wires and tubes and god knows what hooked all over him. There are moments where he doesn’t recognize what’s going on around him, moments where his head flares with pain that shoots down his entire body, moments where he thinks he is choking.

But they all fade into darkness eventually and one day, he wakes up and doesn’t vomit. At all.

Not immediately anyway.

He actually wakes up and feels like he’s been stuffed into a washing machine and had been left in there to spin and spin for years. There is a funny taste at the back of his throat and the first face he sees is Tony’s, sitting a little to his left with an ankle propped over one knee, eating a thick meaty sandwich and fiddling with a Starkpad. The _smell_ of the sandwich hits Bucky like a punch in the gut and he feels his stomach turn -- oh god, the smell. And when Tony takes a loud and obnoxious sip from his packaged juice, the kind that kids drink, Bucky feels his throat rumble with a disapproving sound that makes Tony look at him; he doesn’t stop sipping his juice. Loudly.

“Good evening, sleeping beauty. Happy Thanksgiving, you’re late for the party.” Tony says and then holds out his sandwich. A good fucking feet away from Bucky's face. “Turkey sandwich?”

Bucky cannot help it.

He turns to the side of the bed with everything he can physically muster and dry heaves. He is not surprised that nothing comes out. The nausea doesn’t subside for a good half an hour, long after Tony had finished his sandwich and is actually now sitting there with a box of donuts. Bucky watches him with something that starts to resemble disgust as Tony eats one donut after the other, powdery sugar coating the corners of his lips.

“What time is it?” Bucky finally  _croaks_.

“Twenty-two-eleven.” Tony answers with a cheek puffed out from the donut he had just finished and stuffed into his mouth, picking up another donut and waving it at him. “Are you done wanting to puke? You sure you don’t want a donut?”

Bucky scoffs and opens his mouth to snap something out, to even reach forward and swat the noxiously sweet smelling thing away from him. The intention to move something that isn’t there surprises him because he had been without an arm for a long while. So Bucky jolts when a metal arm shoots up from his side, and his finely honed senses kicks in like muscle reflex, his entire body going stiff when Tony’s hand shoots out _so fast_ to stop the metal arm, to hold it in place.

And right there, in the halogen light of the recovery room, Bucky stares at the metal arm. Maybe it is the trick of the light, or maybe he’s still doped from the drugs or still reeling from the nausea, but the arm looks seamless, so strong. It doesn’t even make a sound when he flexes his fingers. The response is so spot on that Bucky lifts up his other hand and looks at the both of them, comparing, analyzing, senses registering every sensation. Bucky flexes both his hands at the same time and finds that his new arm feels exactly like his own, that there is almost no difference in the movement, no pain, no delayed reaction.

(It’s perfect.)

Then he’s looking at Tony, who had put the donut and its box away. Tony, whose lips is tugging up in one corner as he carefully lowers the metal arm back Down from where he had been holding it in place, a preventive and defensive action in case BUcky panics, carefully bending it around the elbow and folding it over Bucky’s stomach where he holds it there, keeping it still. Bucky does not feel the warmth of Tony’s hand, or the sensation of it over metal, but he watches as Tony’s gaze softens at the sight of his work functioning so seamlessly, watches as the man runs his fingers over the length of Bucky’s new forearm, like it is fine art, delicate, _beautiful_.

Tony looks so proud of his work.

It is there in the smile that tugs around the corners of his lips.

Bucky doesn’t realize that he is holding his breath.

Tony gently pats his new arm twice and then turns away to gather his tools, his donut box and empty juice packets and sandwich wrappers.

“Stark…?”

“See you in the morning, Sergeant.” Tony says, words soft and a whisper, and without another word or a second glance, Tony exits the room and heads into the lab next door, where Bucky can see him take a seat by his monitors through the glass separating them.

Bucky tries to stay awake, to watch Tony work some more, even as the nurses come and check him up routinely.

Bucky doesn’t realize it when he falls asleep and for the first time for as long as he can remember, he feels the phantom embrace of _relief_ ; he doesn’t dream.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE FLYING FUCK! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL THIS GODDAMN CHAPTER! WHYYYYYY!
> 
> I took it as a challenge to write Bucky and now I have this -- this WHATEVERTHEFUCK.
> 
> If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Really! :)
> 
> PS: reluctantly, I have added the BUCKY/TONY tag because at this point, even I am unsure how this will progress. D:


	7. Erase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta. Probably missed a lot of SHIT.
> 
> Also, I HAVE NO GODDAMN WORDS. NONE! FUCK THIS CHAPTER!

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”   
― Mahatma Gandhi

  
“So, I have a work-in-progress theory. About how to ‘help’ your Hydra-pureed brain.”

Bucky is forced to look down at where Tony is sitting cross-legged beside the work-out mat on the floor with a Starkpad on his lap, where he is reading a series of binary codes and taking a sip of his coffee. Bucky had counted that mug as the seventh one since breakfast.

Tony’s work space had been re-arranged to make room and accommodate a few basic gym equipment; Bucky had to undergo a few daily exercises to ensure full recovery and full functionality of the arm. A pull up a bar and a treadmill had been set up by the guards once Bucky had been cleared to walk around the medical bay three days ago, utilizing the space by the window. Earlier, Bucky had been throwing and catching a tennis ball against the wall as a warm up. That ball is now in one of the trash bins, mangled and destroyed because his new fist can, much to Tony’s not-quite-obvious-amusement at the time.

Bucky grunts as he does one more pull-up to count a hundred and then drops silently to the ground with all the agility of a cat to pick up his towel and pat his face dry. Tony doesn’t tell him what is next on his exercise list so Bucky assumes that he is done for the day. 

“Oh?” Bucky lines the towel across his bare shoulders is about to lower himself to sit on the mat but Tony is wiggling a finger at him and pointing at the floor.

“Not yet. Hundred push-ups.” Tony actually looks up from his Starkpad this time to stare at Bucky’s passive face. “It says right here, on the list.” Tony holds up the pad and points at the list in question, which makes Bucky cross his arms and stare down at Tony, who starts to look a little ruffled with the a flush starting to dust over his cheeks. “Fine, whatever. It’s your uncooperative ass on the line, not mine.”

Sometimes, Bucky thinks that Tony behaves like an actual _child_ as a self defence mechanism. Then that belief usually boomerangs itself out the window when Tony starts displaying his intelligent and brilliance, only to return full force when Tony starts acting like arrogant tween prick. Bucky knows it’s all protocol and part of the understanding of what had been made to sound as medical and technological progress of robotics and cellular biology and nano-tech. So he drops down on the mat, towel rolling off his shoulders to the ground and starts to count out loud with each exhale.

“You were saying?” Bucky asks, between his ten and eleven.

“Your trigger words, they were always the same, right? Same order? Oh and once you’re done with that, do fifty more, one handed, using your new arm — what? After everything I’ve done for you, you’re gonna look at me like that? What’s with that face? I don’t come up with this bullshit. If it were up to me, my version of running tests would be you stopping a car at thirty miles per hour with said arm not… callisthenics.”

Bucky knows that Tony is trying to get into his nerves, or he is fishing for information that he had not been made privy to, or he is trying to make his curiosity seem like an investigative cause; two months and a half of spending time with Tony and a week of actually exchanging words, Bucky is starting to wonder at which point did the façade start and at which point did it end to show the _real_ Tony. Bucky is starting to wonder if he prefers when Tony had kept to himself and didn’t actually _talk_. At least, back then, it had been quieter.

Bucky throws Tony another look before he switches to one hand and restarts his counting. “Yeah.” He responds, “They were always the same words in the same order.”

Tony goes quiet and does not say a word. Not immediately anyway. When Bucky straightens up from his one-handed push-ups, Tony then looks up at him.

“Same language?”

Bucky feels the room suddenly feel a little stifling as he recalls the words in his mind, thinks back seventy years as he looks into the clarity of Tony’s gaze. He doesn’t answer immediately, but ends up looking at his new arm, at the fist that balls and release, balls and release, balls and release – Tony doesn’t prod him, doesn’t shake him impatiently for answers the way he usually does with everything post-surgery. This time, Tony is quiet and is looking at him with _concentration that makes Bucky feel a little off his hinge_. A little displaced than the spot he is currently standing on.

“Yeah,” He says casually, or attempts for it to be casual. Bucky finds himself looking away, as if he had not just croaked his answer out.

“Same dialect? Each time?” Tony asks again, slower, with more caution. And when Bucky doesn’t move a muscle, Tony adds, “I really need to know. This particular information is _not_ in your file.”

Bucky feels his lips twitch halfway into a snarl as he tries to think back to decades worth of memories he wishes he never had. He thinks back to the icy cold of their base in Siberia, in Russia, in Ukraine, Kazakhstan, sometimes even as far as Scotland and France – they had been all over the place. Bucky cannot recall a time when a different language had been used. He cannot even recall when a different dialect had been used.

(You remember closing your eyes almost all the time, pushing your head back against the headrest and straps that had kept you in place, trying to drown out their voices, trying to silence the words, to stop it from entering your ears like poison being slowly poured in.)

“There might have been subtle differences in the dialect.” Bucky says, bringing up his towel to his face, an attempt to smother how his breath is starting to come out a little so shallowly, a little too quick. “I really can’t give you a better answer than that. Not on the dialect part. I was too busy trying hard not to hear those damn words to pay closer attention.”

If Tony hears how he smothers the words with his towel, or if he notices how Bucky’s hands _shake_ , he says nothing. Nor does he stop Bucky from walking away from the work out mat to wash the sweat of the day’s workout. Tony does not even send Friday to fetch him from his room. The action in and of itself surprises Bucky because he had been expecting Tony to come get him and explain whatever theory he might have come up with. And Bucky has half the mind to tell him that if T’Challa and his _entire_ team had not been successful in figuring out a way to get Hydra’s programming out of his brain, _what are the chances that you, Tony Stark, one man, can?_

(But that is precisely where you may be wrong because this isn’t just _anyone_ , this is Tony Stark, someone who has come so far with technological advancement that would have otherwise taken others at least two decades to come up with _a quarter_ of what Tony has achieved.)

So Bucky stands there, under the stream of the shower, going through what he can remember, thinking hard, _focusing_ on the pronunciation of syllables, on the tongue movement, the lisps, if any. He thinks of the tenors of R’s and deep guttural G’s.

And he hates himself just a little more when he can’t come up with a better answer than what he had already given Tony.

Tony, who remains seated on the floor leaning against the window, legs outstretched before him as he stares at something being rendered on the Starkpad lying flat on the floor, with Friday hovering beside him with her legs crossed as if she is sitting on an invisible floating chair.

“Ah, one more question, Elsa.” Tony calls out, not even looking up from the coding. “The trigger has always been purely audio-sensory-stimulation? Meaning, you didn’t have to really _see_ their lips move. You just had to _hear_ it. Am I right?”

And Bucky is blinking and thinking, _who the fuck is Elsa_ , but replies anyway, “Yeah. I – yeah.” Just to make sure that he isn’t making an ass of himself in front of a woman, Bucky looks at the guards and finds them unmoving from their posts. “Who’s Elsa?”

Friday straightens from where she is ‘sitting’ and stands there with her most unimpressed look. Bucky had never fully understood just _what_ he may have done to _offend_ Friday, because as far as he can remember, since her arrival, he had stayed out of her way, had listened to her whenever she had asked him to move or fuck-off, so to speak and yet he really can’t seem to do anything right by her that would warrant a look that is neither unimpressed or unamused. Bucky isn’t even _sure_ just _when_ did he turn into the large thorn wedged into Friday’s proverbial side.

“She’s from Frozen.” Friday answers, chin tilting up because her form isn’t very tall. She’s actually quite a petite little thing.

“What’s Frozen?” Bucky asks, fingers spreading and hands held out as if to emphasize his confusion – because he isn’t sure if Tony referring to him as female is to be considered a compliment or an insult. Looking down at his sweatpants and tank top, Bucky is sure that nothing about him can be considered even remotely feminine.

“Before you answer that,” Tony interrupts Friday, who had opened her mouth to address Bucky’s concern. “I may or may not have come up with a way to _temporarily_ stop you from being the uncontrollable killing machine Hydra wants and programmed you to be. The key word here is temporary. I have to stress on the fact that in no way is this a permanent fix. I don’t really have a name for this yet, but, here’s how it works.”

Tony opens his mouth and starts to explain; a lot of its technical aspects goes over Bucky’s head because his knowledge isn’t that far advanced, nor is he too well versed in nano-technology. But the idea is simple: a filtering three-part device that is programmed to block out a certain auditory input is to be inserted into several parts including the auditory cortex, the brain-stem, and the thalamus. Tony continues to demonstrate a holographic illustration of a human ear and brain, proceeds to point out roughly around which area these ‘devices’ are going to be planted in, he even goes as far as giving Bucky a small scientific explanation of how the human brain comprehends sound, how signals are interpreted into an actual motor response.

“It’ll be completely organic and with nano-tech, we should be able to make it seem like it is a part of you, as close as we can get with tissue-production. That way, it should be able to withstand outer interference – or at least, that’s the “general” idea.” Tony says this as he mimics quotation marks with his fingers before he claps his hands once and the holograms disappear. “Questions?”

Bucky isn’t sure what to _say_.

And Tony doesn’t exactly push him to say anything, simply opting to take a seat on a stool and take a sip of his coffee. He sits there, with piercing eyes that are about as reflective as the surface a polished and well cut amber, unreadable as it is expressive, and for just the briefest moment, Bucky feels like he’s staring at his reflection in the focus of Tony’s gaze. He feels his mouth part, to respond, to tell him that Hydra doesn’t function that way, that Hydra would have thought of everything that would prevent something like _this_ , from messing up years of their programming. That Hydra, those disgusting, inhumane _scum_ , are smart, far too _smart_ for their own good, that the minds of hundreds is better than your own, Tony Stark, you have no idea, you can’t have an idea, how would you know?

“I…” Bucky looks away, staring at both his hands for a moment, balling them to a fist once and then slowly releasing it with a slow exhale. “I don’t think it can be that simple…”

Bucky sounds apologetic and almost defeated. Because hope, well, hope is _poison_.

Bucky doesn’t think he can take _hope_ right now.

Not like this.

But Tony rolls his eyes at him. The little arrogant _prick_ just _rolls_ his goddamn eyes at him and Bucky isn’t sure if the heat he feels in his chest is anger, embarrassment at showing just how _tired_ he is to this man that he can never quite figure out, or if it’s something else that tastes too bittersweet like goddamn _hope_.

“Yeah, that’s why I said that this isn’t a _permanent_ fix. But, you were able to break out of your containment back then, before the fight in Germany, remember? With Zemo triggering you? This should buy you enough time to not only break out of any containment, if it comes to that, but to also neutralize the threat, so to speak.” Tony pauses and then quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not _fixing_ your head, Sergeant. Not my field. I’m just, you know, giving you a band-aid.”

The silence that passes between them is thick, more so for Bucky than it is for Tony, because it isn’t Tony who is fucked up, it isn’t Tony who is the puppet here. “Listen, Stark…” Bucky doesn’t think his legs can keep him upright so he slides into a stool as well, propping his elbows on the workbench and swallowing past the growing lump in his throat. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything. You’ve done so much for me already, I mean, this thing…” Bucky is looking at his arm, watching the slight shift of the metallic knuckle when he moves his middle and index finger up and down. “But you gotta understand; it’s hard to believe that it can be that _easy,_ know what I mean?”

“How’s that my problem?” Tony asks, tone slicing the ball of _something_ that his wedged in Bucky’s throat cleanly in half. “I’m not your therapist, Sergeant Barnes. I’m here to consult and come up with ways technological ways to stop you from going off like a live-wire. The rest of the leg work has to come from you.” Tony drains his mug of coffee and sets it down on the workbench with an audible clink. “Can’t help the unwilling. Which makes me wonder, _are_ you willing? Coz’ you got a whole bunch of people whose got a good grip on the wheel and will fight tooth and nail to make _sure_ you don’t go off again, if not _permanently_ fix it.” Tony scoffs and stands up then, moving to head for the coffee machine to pour himself the ungodly umpteenth cup of coffee; the gesture makes Bucky wrinkle his nose in distaste. “Which honestly, had been the whole _point_ before that entire shit-storm in Leipzig, but well, better late than never, I suppose.”

Bucky blinks, back straightening. “What does _that_ mean?”

“I mean, this deal was offered to Captain America years ago, and all he had to do was sign the Accords. The amendments and adjustments would have happened, he and the others, and many more that would have followed him, would have had a ‘hand on the wheel’, they would have had a _voice_ , and all his actions would have been made legitimate. You would have been held in a facility in United States’ soil and really, I personally would have done all this _before_. And more, maybe.” A beat passes. “Whether or not I knew you killed my parents. I still would have done it if it meant keeping the team _together_. We are a lot _stronger_ together. That was the _whole point_.”

“Well, what stopped you from doing all _that_ , then? How’s that –“

“Didn’t Cap tell you?” Tony asks, tilting his head. “I tore the team apart when I _signed._ And come on, don’t pretend that you didn’t know that he didn’t sign.”

“But the Accords happened, anyway.” Bucky says, feeling his shoulders slump just a touch, a foreign weight sitting between his shoulder blades that _digs_ into flesh and bone.

“It happened, anyway.” Tony repeats, shrugging. “Coffee?”

Bucky shakes his head and turns to look at the stretch of the sandy landscape that stretches ahead, as far the eyes can see. He mulls this information over, weighs it out. Between going under and being amongst the living, Bucky cannot recall a time where he had been made privy of any of Steve and Tony’s dealings with each other. He had heard of the fun things, the good memories, the jokes and things that had made the team sound like a family Steve had deserved, but never the ugly parts of it. Everything that is coming out of Tony’s mouth had sounded foreign.

“Well, you kinda’ did arrest him…” Bucky says, throwing a little gas into the flame. Tony _laughs_ as he returns to his stool with a cup of steaming coffee; it sounds hollow. “And threw the rest into a prison without a chance at a trial; a right to a trial had been in your Accords, right?”

“ _My_ Accords?” Tony asks, and the laugh reaches a dorky-like pitch as he claps his hands and _applauds_. “Wow. You and Rogers really are two peas in a pod.”

“Now, you hold on a minute—“

“The Accords was sanctioned and signed, at that time, by over a hundred-twenty countries, more of them now, by the way –“

“That’s not the point –“

“Is that what they told you? That the Accords was _my_ idea and that I pushed for it because of my guilty conscience –“

“Damnit, Stark, let me finish –“

“— because of Ultron? Yeah, sure, because I can buy off a hundred twenty countries and pay them off so that I can sleep better at night, because I did not want accountability, because the trust and support of the global population towards the Avengers had been dragged through the mud because _I_ created Ultron, well guess what, I signed, didn’t I? Because the best hands aren’t always our own, it certainly, most definitely, _isn’t mine_. Because at the end of the day, if the people doesn’t want you protecting them, who the _hell_ are we to enforce ourselves upon _them_? And here’s a thought, while I was here in the public’s eye, facing the consequences of my actions as _Iron Man_ , where the _fuck_ was the rest of them? Defending others in places and further disrupting sovereign borders?”

“Stark –“

“Which only gave birth to the Resistance, superheroes who didn’t want to sign because fuck the United Nations – “

Bucky is on his feet and banging both his fists on workbench, rattling the mug of coffee and denting the metal surface. “Stark!”

“—because inexperienced _hands_ , with no training, no control of their own powers, no knowledge of minimizing casualties - practically _children_ \- had taken this picture-perfect image of a so-called hero who answered to _no one_ and what happened? Thousands _dead_ and _injured_ in _casualties_. All because of a man who gave the proverbial finger to the rest of the world, because he doesn’t do _agendas_. Except when it’s serving his own. Like _you_.”

Bucky’s teeth grounds as he snarls loudly and grabs Tony by the hem of his t-shirt and yanks him over the counter, hauling his weight with ease. The movement happens fast in three seconds flat, with Tony’s glasses skewing on the bridge of his nose and his coffee mug shattering somewhere on the floor, and the guards cocking their guns and laser dots pointing at Bucky, safety clicking off and ready to fire. Except Tony had a hand up in their direction, a silent order for them to hold their fire as he braces himself on the workbench, knuckles tight and white.

Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t _breathe_ , doesn’t _dare_ twitch and look away.

And in that very moment, while Bucky holds Tony captive in his grip, nothing exists beyond the stillness of their gazes locked against each other, the distance between them nothing but a mere breath. This close, Bucky can see the rings of color in the depths of those brown eyes, almost like smouldering deep ambers, and when they’re this close, one can notice the flecks of gold in those depths, like the dunes of a desert sunset. Bucky can see the red lines of fatigue and _dedication_ spreading like spider veins in the whites of those eyes, ugly and yet a testament to Tony’s actions, marring the mesmerizing grip on whoever Tony deems his focus is worthy of. This close, the scent of Tony’s aftershave, and cologne assaults his senses, fills him with it until it’s the only thing he’s breathing.

This close, Bucky can see the _hurt_ that is as raw as the wounds that Steve had left him with, all those years ago, in the solitude of Siberia’s unforgiving winter.

This close, Bucky can see himself.

(Except Tony isn’t like you. He didn’t hide when he probably didn’t trust the public with himself. He didn’t run and cower and live like a rat in a sewer. He stood up to the public, no matter how many times he was crucified for it. He doesn’t have the protection of Steve’s shield. He doesn’t have the patriotism to protect him from the snarling fangs of the people. But he didn’t run away. Not like you. And not like Steve. Call it what you like, Bucky-boy, but at some point, you have to admit that Stark has balls. What have you got to say for yourself?)

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, watches as Tony’s gaze flickers down to his lips, as Tony’s lips parts in a slow breath, so quiet, so hesitant and unsure, _afraid_ , watches how the light rush of air moves past to those parted lips. Bucky cannot look away; he can almost _taste_ the rich dark roast of Tony’s coffee.

“Steve wasn’t wrong.” Bucky whispers, swallowing the suddenly large lump in his throat, just as he feels Tony go weak in his grip, the weight of defeat suddenly prominent and tugging at the bunched t-shirt fabric in Bucky’s iron grip. This defeat, Bucky realizes, is one that Tony hides too well.

But not when he’s standing this close.

Not when Bucky can _feel_ the tremble in Tony’s voice when he answers, “Neither was I.”

“Neither were you…” Bucky repeats, and maybe it’s the ratification Tony had wanted to hear from someone else other than his own consciousness, but Bucky sees the incredulity that makes the amber depths glow that it’s almost surreal. Bucky almost doesn’t recognize the look on Tony’s face because it changes, it _softens_ the hard lines, exposes the soft flesh underneath that metal armor that Tony wears like some sort of invisible shield now; he’s _always_ Iron Man, even without the suit. “I’m not Steve, Stark.” Bucky says and it’s almost like watching his helpless, weak and beaten down friend back in the day, when Steve had looked up at him when he had extended his arm towards him to get his skinny ass off the cluster of dumpsters during their schooling days. “I’m not him.”

Bucky doesn’t know _why_ he’s doing this.

(Or maybe you do, because you know what it’s like to be pushed to a corner with nowhere else to go, to lock yourself away from the world and hide from it under the mask of the Winter Soldier. You know what it’s like to have the whole _world_ against you. And for Tony, his whole world had been his team, right? Can’t you see it?)

Tony’s hand lowers, fingers waving a weak dismissal as the guards obey, lowering their guns and the red dots disappear off Bucky’s frame, boots shuffling as they return to their posts.

“Sergeant…” Tony begins and ends at the same time, like he doesn’t know what to say, like the words are struggling and banging against the prison bars of his throat.

Bucky understands it.

He understands it too well.

“I’m _not_ him.” Bucky’s repeats as his grip shifts and he watches Tony cannot stop the flinch from coming to his face, how Tony still, despite his _best_ efforts, is absolutely _terrified_ of him. And somehow, his bravery and dedication to _not_ fear the Winter Soldier is enough for Bucky to mirror respect the effort, to reach out and place his free hand on the curve of Tony’s neck and shoulder, his real hand, the same way one would assuredly hold a fellow junior solider in the team. “We’re _not_ the same. Ya’ hear me?”  

And for a brief moment, nothing but a fraction of a second, Bucky feels the warmth of Tony’s forehead against his own, a brush that results in the slight and involuntary rocking motion that Tony does to get his feet back on the ground. Bucky realizes then how he had practically hauled Tony off his feet, notices how Tony’s arms shakes with the effort of keeping his weight in place in his frozen state of _fear_ and uncertainty. And as if burned, much like the heat that suddenly assaults and crawls up Bucky’s neck, he releases his grip on Tony’s t-shirt, and hears him drop back to the ground with a sharp inhale as he reaches up to straighten his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Friday?” Tony calls out, and this time, Friday remains as a voice in the ceiling.

“Yes, boss?”

Bucky looks away immediately and turns to the view of the desert beyond the glass, ashamed and embarrassed at his temper and sudden loss of control.

“Do Sergeant Barnes a favor and educate him on Frozen. He needs to keep up with the times and trends if he is going to assimilate with the current team.” Tony is walking away, taking his place amongst his spread of monitors and leaving Bucky, who is left surprised and suddenly and hilariously vulnerable.

“With pleasure. Sergeant Barnes, if you could direct your gaze away from my boss and look at the screen I am about to project.”

Bucky listens to Friday, and doesn’t miss the amusement tugging at one of the corners of Tony’s lips as he starts typing on the keyboard.

And just like that, he sits through the musical numbers, the better and slightly more realistic cartoon of two sisters and finally, some of it painful, some of it annoying, and tries hard to understand why in all things holy and great, did Tony thinks he is comparable to Elsa. He remains quiet for about half the movie, before tearing his gaze away from the screen to glance at Tony, shortly after Elsa concludes her Let-it-go piece. Friday is sitting beside him on the stool, finger’s laced over a knee.

“Why am I Elsa, again?” Bucky asks, addressing the question openly.

He notices how some of the guards shift, and how Tony doesn’t even stop typing on his keyboard.

“The movie isn’t done, Sergeant Barnes. Perhaps it is best to save the Q and A session once it has concluded. That way, you will have a better picture towards that reference.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and doesn’t miss the slight cough-sneeze that comes from one of the guards, nor does he miss how Tony’s jaw locks tight. It’s probably a piss poor effort to smother his grin. Friday ‘bullying’ him seems to have that effect on Tony. He is about to say something, to return the sharp retort with something of his own, except Bucky is distracted with something that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. For a moment, he thinks that the reflection in the horizon is nothing more than a desert illusion, and for a while, he continues to watch movie. Except his gaze keeps flickering towards the horizon and when he stops watching the movie all together, Friday interrupts him.

“Sergeant Barnes?” 

“Are you expecting company, Stark?” He asks, moving to stand towards the glass window.

“Your plane arrives tomorrow to ship you back to DC. Why?” Tony asks, keyboard falling silent as he looks up from his workstation.

Bucky keeps staring at the desert, searches its peaks and valleys and shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Just –“

It’s the distant whistling sound that makes Bucky’s body tighten liked a cocked bowstring and before he knows it, he is _shouting_ at everyone around him to get down as the glass explodes with the impact of a rocket tearing through metal and concrete and ripping the facility in half. Bucky feels the impact throw him off, away from where he had wanted to rush and grab Tony out of the way, his instincts as a soldier to always protect civilians, to protect his _asset_ kicking in.

The bullets start to rain then and Bucky watches, in the haze of smoke and rubble and unsurmountable horror as the facility’s staff and guards drop one by one, as the blood and flesh _sprays_ and the wires and debris and foundation drops from the ceiling and down the ground below him, everything tilting inwards, collapsing from the inside and Tony – _where is Tony?_ Bucky doesn’t realize how he’s shouting for Tony’s name from where he is lying flat on the ground, rolling away as a beam collapses and takes everything down with it.

And that is when he sees it, another pillar of the facility’s structural foundation coming right at him, blocking his view of the clear blue sky above.

Except he’s suddenly staring at the glow of Iron Man’s eyes, a blazing blue flame encased in hot rod red and rich gold.

The beam lands on Iron Man’s back, forcing Tony on a metal encased knee right there by Bucky’s side, arms up to hold the beam in place, away from Bucky, the suit groaning with its weight. Bucky feels the coolness of the metal suit radiating against him as he tries to breathe through his nose, before Tony rises and the beam is pushed off along with its rubble. That is when Bucky sits up to see Iron Man fire multiple rockets that takes the plane down, explosion echoing in the sandy and rocky pits below.

And then there is silence.

“Are you okay? Are you _hurt_?” Tony is asking him, kneeling before him, metal hands on his shoulder and the hud of the suit open, revealing an incredible pale and worried face.

“Y-Yeah, yeah, I’m all right, but…” Bucky looks around the chaos, at the mess, at all the dead staff.

“Legion’s on its way; they’ll be here any minute. Friday is sending out an alert, we should be getting assistance and –“

Bucky cuts Tony off as he reaches forward and yanks him down, arms wrapping around his head and forcing Tony flat on the ground as bullets start to rain not just from another plane, but two more. The roar around them doesn’t stop until the ground gives away completely and they both start to fall into the desert pit below. Bucky hears himself scream involuntarily as he watches Tony fall first, and they hit concrete and metal hard, rolling down and down and down under the desert heat and suddenly, it’s like the war all over again, except Bucky is surrounded by reds and orange instead of the cold icy white of the European winter.

But Bucky doesn’t have enough time to contemplate as he hits the rock and starts to roll down the rough terrain. The pain that envelopes him then makes him _scream_ and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to pass out. Except the world around him darkens, not because he is on the verge of passing out, but because he is being encased in cool metal and being moved away from the collapse of debris until he is meters away and hidden under the shadows of the rocky terrain around them.

A few seconds later, Bucky hears a crash several feet away from him and when he manages to raise his head to look, he finds the crumpled form of Tony Stark flat against rocks, unmoving.

“Security and evacuation measures effective; Protocol Asset Priority: James Buchanan Barnes activated. Power charging for accelerated flight.” Friday’s voice is in his ears, loud, crisp and very _clear_.

“No! No, wait! Stark! We need to get Stark! He’s right _there_!” Bucky says this while fighting the urge to pass out inside the hud, as he struggles against the prison hold of the suit and finds that he cannot _move_. The Iron Man suit holds him in place like a coffin.

“Legion approaching. United States air force support also approaching.” Friday says, “Power up to ninety-four percent. Please remain calm, Sergeant Barnes, these are Boss’ orders.”

“Fuck your Boss’ orders!” Bucky _snaps_ , and struggles even more and managed to resist the hold and get on his knees, preparing to stand. “Those orders are _bullshit and you fucking know it!_ ”

“Flight power on standby. I am sorry, Sergeant Barnes. But you _must_ remain calm!”

The roar of the Legion overhead silences Bucky effectively as he the suit ducks him further underneath the shadow of rocks. From a distance, there is a roar of explosions and soon after, two jets F-16’s fly past and Bucky goes as still as death when another Iron Man suit lands right in front of him. He watches as the suit approaches Tony’s unmoving form, kneels down and presses against Tony’s back, gradually encasing him. Bucky watches as the suit picks itself up from the floor and Iron Man glove that had been missing from Bucky’s metallic arm finally re-attaches itself.

Tony hadn’t been alone after all.

“Stark?” Bucky says, feeling his head _swim_ and bile rise up his throat. “ _Stark!_ ”

“Stealth mode activated; estimated time of arrival: fifty-one minutes. Please relax, Sergeant Barnes. Boss is alive.”

The view of the desert shifts to that of the blue sky and the jets of the Legion whisks past him towards the obliterated facility. Bucky can hear the explosions echo and from the corner of his eye, he can see the blue sky tinge with gray as smoke rises. But as the suit surges forward and the pressure start to stabilize, Bucky feels the nausea get the better of him. He doesn’t realize how he keeps asking Tony to say something, to tell him that he’s okay, asks him if he can him, if he can just say something.

But Bucky’s words fall on deaf ears.

And soon, he too, goes deaf as his eyes roll back and he passes out in the safe embrace of the Mark VIII.

\--

When Bucky comes to, he is lying flat on his back on a woolen woven rug. The first thing he takes a note of is that he is in a cabin-like structure with the drapes drawn and two Iron Man suits standing guard both at the front door and the back door, blue and white glow of the armor the only strong light source in the very dim cabin. From where he is lying on the floor, Bucky can see how the living room is connected to an open kitchen and right there, sitting on the wooden chair by the dining table, slumped and head hanging over his chest, is Tony.

Years of stealth missions and decades worth of training forces Bucky to remain even and unmoving, as if still unconscious. His super soldier serum might have simply been a knock-off of Steve’s but it is enough for him to expand his senses and hear the hum of what sounds like the wilderness surrounding the cabin.

They are alone.

Bucky _jerks_ involuntarily then, as the pains shoots up his side and leg, groaning softly as he carefully pushes himself off the ground and shakily makes his way to the kitchen, all his weight on his left leg because his other one is twisted and broken and he isn’t even sure how he had even gotten on his feet in the first place; times like these that Bucky remembers to be grateful to the serum coursing through his veins. But he manages to cross the room and when he reaches Tony, he takes a moment to assess the damage, carefully placing a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

Tony does not respond to the touch, nor does he shift to the very gentle shake.

In the dim light, Bucky can see the pool of blood collecting at the bottom of the chair; he can see the darker patches around the gray t-shirt Tony had been wearing that morning. The smell of copper is thick in the air and Bucky cannot stop the curse from forming at the tip of his tongue as he gives Tony another gentle shake, carefully bracing his hip against the table so he can place both his hands on Tony’s face and tilt it upwards.

That is when Bucky is barely able to control the jerking of his hands back, is barely able to _stop_ himself from taking a step back and jostling the table when he sees how Tony’s head pliantly moves with his hand and how his eyes are as dark as the evening sky, wide open and unseeing. That is also when Bucky sees how Tony is bleeding slowly out of his nose and ears, how the corners of his eyes are now also starting pool with red.

“Jesus Christ…” He says slowly and feels the words and his breath coat his tongue and throat like ash.

That is when Friday materialises beside him. “Colonel Rhodes is on his way. He is accompanied by Captain Rogers and Vision. They will be here in less than forty minutes. You have been unconscious for two hours and three minutes.”

“Where are we?”

“We are in one of Boss’s safe houses, just outside of Van Buren, Arkansas. For the time being, we are safe. The Legion and military has neutralized the threat. Miss Romanov’s team is investigating the cause of the attack.” Friday flicks a glance at Tony and then at Bucky. “Please do not worry –“

“He’s _bleeding_.” Bucky says, with a pointed look and looks around the small cabin for something to work with.

“Boss is fine.” Friday says; Bucky can hear the uncertainty in her tone, can hear how it is forced and almost mechanical this time.

“I dunno, doll, you don’t look or sound very convincing to me.” Bucky says and carefully reaches up to cup Tony’s face once again. “Stark? Can you hear me?”

“Please step away from my Boss, Sergeant Barnes.”

“ _Lady,_ your boss is _bleeding_ and he looks like a thing possessed, I really don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do right now.“ Bucky reaches forward and picks Tony up from the chair, carefully hobbling his way to the floor of the living room and carefully placing him there. The jostling must have aggravated a wound because the woolen carpet is soaked in seconds.

Bucky feels his mind switch off as he rips the shirt off and assesses the damage, sees the gaping punctured wound on Tony’s side and shoulder and carefully starts to use the bits of Tony’s shirt to stop the bleeding. He moves quick, looking around the small kitchen and living room until he finds water and a first aid kit. He does not think that Tony will last more than fifteen minutes if he keeps bleeding this way. So Bucky works with what he can and turns the burner on to heat up one of the mounted fireplace pokers so he could cauterize the wound on Tony’s side.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to stop the bleeding.” Bucky says, voice flat, devoid of emotion, focused at the task at hand as the iron heats up. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the parts of him that Hydra had not managed to completely erase, Bucky _prays_. He prays as he watches the iron heat up that Tony lives through this. He prays that whatever it is that is wrong with Tony, whatever it is that makes him look _inhuman_ , won’t take him away from this world completely. Bucky is no stranger to things like magic or myths or legends, or once-humans who had chosen to cast away their humanity. He had witnessed the Red Skull, had seen what powers beyond their universe is capable of, had been made privy to gods from the skies aiding and protecting the earth through the news. Steve himself has told him stories of Thor.

Bucky’s only concern at the moment is Tony’s body; after all, Tony cannot live if his body fails.

The medical kit is spread out on the floor, ready for Bucky to use as he carefully straddles Tony by the thighs to hold him place and carefully leans over and pins Tony’s good shoulder to the ground with the weight of his forearm, pinning his wrist above his head to minimize thrashing. He will only need a few seconds to cauterize the wound and judging from the hole on Tony’s other shoulder, Bucky is hoping that his assumption is right that Tony wouldn’t be able to move that hand. Not by much anyway.

“Do you need assistance?” Friday asks, standing by the fireplace now.

“Gee, now you’re asking?” Bucky huffs and uses his own shoulder to push the beading sweat off his own temple. “Think you can get one of the suits to hold him down by the shoulders or something? This isn’t exactly painless.”

Friday doesn’t respond verbally, but the Mark VIII kneels by Tony’s head and holds Tony down by the shoulder and his chest. Bucky adjusts his posture on Tony’s thighs, picks up the hot poker and pops open the bottle of betadine, pouring a generous amount on the open gash. He feels Tony tremble underneath him, an involuntary shudder of his body reacting to the cool rush of foreign liquid on an open wound. It is also probably the remnants of shock.

“What is wrong with him?” Bucky asks, snapping a glove on with his teeth and picking up a wad of sterile gauze.

“He is alive.” Friday says. “I am sorry, Sergeant Barnes. I cannot discuss why Boss is in a currently placid state; he has restricted my protocols. Perhaps when he is awake, you may attempt to ask him. He may just give _you_ an answer.”

Bucky curses under his breath before inhaling sharply and doesn’t even think twice as he presses the hot iron against the tender flesh, hearing skin hiss.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Bucky’s hand snaps forward to clamp over Tony’s mouth to silence the sudden _scream_ , he watches as Tony’s eyes clears and brown irises are revealed from underneath the black blanket, wide and dilated. And Tony screams and _screams_ , and how he screams until his throat goes dry and the tears trickle down his temples, the cries muffled and fuck, _fuck_ , Bucky finds himself apologizing, and _apologizing_ , and he cannot stop the string of apologies from rolling off his tongue even as the clang of iron echoes in the room from where Bucky tosses it aside and presses the gauze carefully over the wound and the Mark VIII releases its hold. Tony _slumps_ on the ground almost lifelessly, unable to even curl in on himself as his mind probably reels from the pain and Bucky doesn’t _dare_ remove his hand from his mouth, doesn’t dare uncover the screams that dies down to small and almost choked whimpers.

“I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Bucky says, _ashamed_ and _defeated_ , and when he looks at the cauterized wound that will scar forever, when he sees that it is successful until real help arrive, he carefully presses his metallic hand against Tony’s forehead to push the dust and matted hair back. It is a piss poor attempt to comfort. “I’m sorry…”

(And you’re watching the way he looks at you, how his eyes are glassy and unseeing, you watch as you look at your face in the pools of brown that can be as bright as rich amber, now dulled and quiet and almost lifeless because you’ve done that, haven’t you? You’ve taken so much from this man. You’ve taken every sense and definition of family he may have had and while you understand you’re not solely to blame, you still did it anyway. Maybe Howard and Maria had been beyond your control. But maybe that day in Siberia had not. Maybe instead of fighting back, you should have simply defended. Maybe, just _maybe_ , you should have not thrown punches back, because this man, even in his suit of armor, is just a man. You can break the armor, you almost did, you almost ripped his heart out. But you, Bucky-boy, you had asked Steve the million dollar question: are you even worth all this? Because the hard truth is, living to follow that boy who just didn’t know when to quit isn’t even enough for you anymore, is it? Not after seventy years of murder, of cold blood on your hands and muted screams. The truth is, you want to die, too.

And after all that’s said and done, the reason you’re even trying to go this far, is because here, beneath you, this man who is looking at you like you’re a puzzle, sometimes afraid of you, sometimes bewildered by you and sometimes, and this is when you think you’re imagining things, sometimes you think he admires you. It’s there in the dedication in his work that is done _for you_. It’s there in the small smiles that he tries to _smother_ when his creation picks and makes a harmless jab at you. It’s there when he touches the metal arm he has spent time building for you. This man is a survivor and a victim of the waste you had left in your wake for seventy years and maybe it’s not all on you, Steve doesn’t think so: but what exactly have you done to repent?

That’s right; nothing.

Now you stand there, all power and strength, trying to silence him the way you silenced countless others, the way you silenced his _mother_ and aren’t you just a piece of shit.)

“God, I am so sorry…” Bucky says and something in his voice _cracks_ as he finds himself blinking away the sudden build-up of moisture in his eyes and he releases the hold he had on Tony’s mouth, listens to how Tony sucks in a hungry breath and his chest _heaves_ , and _heaves_ until it slowly evens out and his face rolls tiredly to the side, lips trembling and words unable to form a coherent response.

Bucky sucks in two breaths and exhales slowly through his teeth as he carefully starts to patch up the hole on Tony’s shoulder, does his best until there is nothing else he can do but sit there in the dark, on guard, with Tony’s head pillowed on his lap. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a thing as Tony looks up at him in with glassy eyes, as the blood continues to slowly trickle out of his nose and ears. Bucky says nothing as he dabs the blood away with a wad of clean gauze, as he watches the eyelids flutter and long eyelashes cast shadows upon Tony’s dusty cheeks. And at some point, Bucky watches as Tony opens his mouth to say something, when the words gurgle out of his lungs and something that sounds like the choked syllables of Bucky’s military rank comes out of trembling lips. Bucky presses a hand to his head, careful as if Tony is made of glass and just shakes his head, hushes him softly.

Bucky doesn’t even know _how_ Tony is still conscious.

(But fear can do that to you; it can keep you awake even when all you want to do, is close your eyes.)

And that is how they find him, how Rhodey, Vision and Steve kicks the door open and light pours into the darkened cabin.

Bucky remembers looking up at the frozen forms of his childhood friend and Steve’s former teammates and current handler. Bucky remembers watching as the medical team pushes them aside with supplies and how they separate him from Tony, putting distance between them as they start to prep Tony for transport. Bucky idly remembers nodding to the paramedic, tells them he’s fine, he’s okay, he’ll live, he can barely feel the pain of his wounds, anyway. But most of all, Bucky remembers watching Steve’s face _crumple_ and look absolutely _devastated_ at the mess on the floor, how he had looked at Bucky like he hadn’t done enough to prevent this.

(Because Tony isn’t the super soldier here. He isn’t the one with higher physical limitations. If anything, Bucky should have been protecting him because in the grand scheme of things, Tony’s life is worth a lot more than his own. The world would mourn the loss of a futurist and inventor, but not of a cold blooded assassin.)

And then he’s sitting in the icy silence of the quinjet, watching as the paramedics continue to try to stabilize the damage.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky says, because the apologies had not stopped playing over and over again in his mind. “I’m sorry for all this.”

“Don’t be.” Rhodey responds, crisp and clear like a whiplash cutting through the mantra in Bucky’s head and silencing it. It is enough to make him look up and catch Steve’s gaze and the equally hard and unreadable blameless look Rhodey is directing at him. “Tony is a lot tougher than you think. Something like _this_ isn’t going to knock him down. He has survived worse.”

“He didn’t deserve it, though.” Bucky says and looks at his hands, unable to meet the gaze of the Colonel or the sentient sitting beside him. He isn’t even able to look at Steve in the eye.

Rhodey chuckles though, without humor. “Before Tony agreed in taking up this project, he had made sure that he had safety measures in place. One of them is the Protocol Asset Priority he had programmed into his Legion not so long ago. Do you know what that means?” When Bucky says nothing, Rhodey simply continues. “It means that even at the cost of his own life, the entire Iron Man Legion will prioritise whoever he deems it necessary for.”

Bucky feels his breath still and turn into icy needles in his lungs as the weight of that explanation makes his eyes widen, makes him choke on something that tastes too much like self-disgust and guilt as he stares at Rhodey’s impressive poker face.

“Hey, don’t look at me. I wouldn’t know _why_ he would _think_ you’re worth _that_.” Rhodey shrugs.

\--

The funny thing is, Tony _remembers_ everything that happens this time around.

There are no pockets of faded memories, no black outs, no gaps in timelines.

No, this time, Tony _knows_ that he had lost his mind.

Because he remembers lying on the floor of his cabin in Arkansas. He remembers bleeding a river and he remembers that he had put far too much strain on Extremis, the virus torn between the speed of his thought and will and the programmed function over the ability to heal. Tony knows that he is an overworked machine, he knows that his brain is slowly melting, coming apart, turning into a gunk of jumbled memories and images inside his skull. Tony had reached a point months ago where he questions everything he sees.

(Because there are days when you can smell your mother’s lemon and ginger tea from the kitchen. There are days when you lie in he sofa and you hear the piano play and her soft voice echo in the empty house. There are days when you think the cookies on the kitchen counter had been left there by Jarvis, that even when you see how they look a little different, a little flatter, a little drier, they _taste_ exactly like how you remember them. And at first, it was only Jarvis and Maria. But then Howard started to show up, sometimes sitting beside you in the workshop and flipping through some of your blue-prints. Sometimes, he is flipping the holographic pages in front of him. And sometimes, he presses a hand to the crown of your head, like how he had done a few times all those years ago that you barely remember how it had even felt like.

Until now.

And then Pepper came into the picture, sometimes you wake up to her watching you sleep with that beautiful smile of hers, the kind that softens the corner of her eyes and make those tiny lies appear around her laugh lines; the most adorable smile in the world. Sometimes she is curled against you in bed. And sometimes, she is just reading a book by the fireplace with a glass of her favorite rose wine. And that’s when it went downhill from there. Because when you watch your workshop suddenly turn into a moshpit and you do not know if you’re dreaming, or if you’re awake, when you are standing beside Rhodey and jumping up and down to James Hetfield’s voice, or when you’re both banging your heads to the solos of Angus Young and Dave Murray or screaming out the lyrics with Dave Mustaine – at that point, your grasp of reality had slipped free from your fingers.

Then you think it’s Thanksgiving and you think it’s your birthday, and you think it’s Christmas when you smell Apple Pie from the kitchen and see Steve standing there with an apron, humming softly as he kneads dough. You think you hear Clint from the living room and sure enough, there he is, cursing as he loses to Natasha to another round of Tekken or Mario Kart. And you think you hear Wanda giggling as she tries to teach Vision how to cross-stich or Scrapbook, or when she outright laughs at the result of Vision’s attempt at knitting because the Christmas sock does not look like a sock at all.

But the worst of it was the one night you had been sitting on the piano, and Steve joined you, sat beside you until you feel the warmth of his leg pressing against yours because the bench isn’t very big, not for the two of you, anyway. It is the absolute worst because when you switched tunes and play something more familiar to him, he sings the words out, a little off key, a little raspy around the edges because Steve can never hold his notes too well. But he sings anyway like he is having a good time with _you,_ like he doesn’t blame you for anything, like he’s _happy_ to be around _you_. And when Steve throws an arm around your shoulder after the song, that is when bang your fists against the keys and smash it inwards, the white keys wedging so deep within and how could you? This was your mother’s piano and you’ve ruined it, oh god I’ve ruined it, and you’re crying. You’re just crying because it’s not real, none of it is _real_ and Steve will never sing to anything you play, let along sit beside you. He will never turn to straddle the bench and wrap his arms around your head and hush you, tell you it’s okay, it’s okay to be mad, Tony, it’s okay, I’m here when you need me, you don’t have to do this alone.

And suddenly you are wondering why you aren’t even afraid of Steve ripping your heart out anymore. Why are you not afraid of the man who tried to kill you?

Ah, but that’s easy, isn’t it Tony? You see, because everybody wants to kill you; you should be _dead_.)

So Tony remembers lying on the floor and staring into eyes that are so, _so_ blue, that in the haze of the pain, Tony remembers days when he had stared up at the sky, when his hands been so little and he had chased after his mother on the shores of their villa in the Maldives. He remembers days when packing up his beach toys had been the highlight of his summers. And the skies then had been warm, so wide that Tony remembers opening up to it, embracing it, and jumping upwards, and Tony remembers in that moment that it is that memory that is all he can think of, over and over again, as he gazes into the eyes of the Winter Soldier and can no longer think of ice, and the numbing cold. Tony remembers not even seeing the raw and frosty rage from when the Winter Soldier had snarled at him and had tried to rip his heart out.

Tony knows that when looking into Bucky’s eyes had started to remind him of the better days, the warmer days, the summers when his little feet had left prints on sands so white under a sky so utterly blue, he _knows_ that he _is_ insane.

And he had watched with something like desperation, as that blue sky darkened and a red moon started to rise, had watched as the sky had opened to something alien and bloody, watched as the stars had suddenly looked like souls ascending to the heavens because the ground around him is no longer warm and white, but black and sticky from the cold blood of the endless bodies that keeps piling higher and higher and the only one smiling down at him with a metallic hand on his head is the monster he had created.

(This isn’t the ‘monster’ you are trying to fix. This is not the ‘monster’ the world has come to know as the Winter Soldier. Because oh Tony, you are not the world and you know the difference between a victim and a murderer, and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is not a monster. You know better. You are more intelligent to think otherwise. Because monsters do not hold you and apologize for sins that had been beyond their control. Monsters do not look at you with guilt and wish they can take your place. And most of all, monsters will never look at you the way Bucky does, like he wants to help you, like he wants to make up for everything to you, like he wants to _try_ with _you_.)

Tony knows it’s not real.

He tells himself every minute, that what he sees is _not_ real.

But at some point, he remembers, closing his eyes, because he is tired. God he is so tired. Because he knows that there is nothing he can do about the voices, that there is nothing he can do but sing along to the songs, and keep inhaling the scent of cookies and pie, that he cannot erase the weight of his mistakes that comes in the shape of metal and taunting songs of his favorite childhood story. So he lets it pass through his ears and pretend to look away and repeat the mantra in his mind that _you’renotrealyou’renotrealyou’renotreal!_

Because what had been real was the pain on his side. What had been real was the pain in the back of his head that had been so blinding that _goddamnit,_ it feels like someone is punching him repeatedly in the nose because _goddamnit,_ it _hurts_. Tony knows that the numbness on his shoulder had been real, that his limited ability to move his arm had been due to the puncture wound he had gotten trying to escape the rain of bullets and the collapse of a facility that is worth millions of dollars, when he had paid little to no concern to his own life because saving Bucky had been his purpose, because saving Bucky would bring about change to the world, because saving Bucky would mean saving _the team_. Saving Bucky would mean saving _Steve_ but most of all, you want to save Bucky because he reminds you of yourself, because you know what it’s like to be blamed for things that are, sometimes, just not in your control.

Because the truth of it is, Bucky _deserves_ better.

And this is where Tony remembers really knowing that he had fallen far too deep into the rabbit hole to crawl out of. Because as he remembers lying there on the operating table, in the haze of the anaesthesia finally kicking in, he sees Howard come up to him, sees him put a hand on his forehead and tell him everything is going to be okay, that he is doing well, that he has achieved _everything_ he had always believed he would be capable of. That _I am so proud of you, that you are the bravest man I know, that you are the hero this country deserves._

Tony knows that when Howard directs those words at him, words that he had used to describe Steve Rogers, he _knows_ , god how he _knows_ , that he is a goner.

So waking up feels like finally surfacing water after being under for too long.

(Except you know that you’re never surfacing again, because your real reality is the fact that you are drowning in reality itself.)

Tony jerks off the bed _gasping_ , eyes wide open and staring into the bright halogen glow in the ceiling. And then he doesn’t know where he is, except he is looking up the date, looking up what time it is, and from there, it’s like an unstoppable impulse because he’s _digging_ through Rhodey’s phone records, and Natasha’s records and through the data servers of the Accords’ Task Force, trying to track what had happened while he had been out because Tony _knows_ in milliseconds, like a flash behind his eyelids, that he had been out for _twelve days._ And he feels like crying, and maybe he is crying, because he sees how Natasha had pieced together what piss poor data he had been able to salvage while trying not to bleed on the floor of his cabin days ago, he sees how they work so well together and how it feels like just yesterday, when they talk of information extraction, and decrypting and pulling puzzle pieces together. Tony sees missed opportunities and too many gone yesterdays because no matter what he tells himself, he works _well_ with Natasha. He fits in the team that had gone to stake out the probable Hydra facilities he had managed to barely locate in three different areas in the pacific, but knows from what he sees, from what firewalls he slips through, that Rhodey, Vision, Natasha and Steve and Bucky himself (oh would you look at that, they’re letting him out on the field~ Well that was quick~), had pieced together what he had given them, that they had taken how fickle and weak his intel had been and they had run away with it, taken down the bastards and remnants of Hydra that had tried to steal their Winter Soldier back. He fits there, with _them_.

He’s a goddamn Avenger.

That is where Tony _belongs_.

(Except you know they don’t want you back, why the _hell_ would _anyone_ want you back? It’s a miracle Rhodey himself hasn’t dumped your sorry ass yet, what with the amount of shit you put him through for  the past god knows how many years!)

And when the data behind his eyelids clears, when Tony thinks he’s staring at the _real world_ this time, he sees Steve. Steve who with his warm and gentle hands on his face, Steve who is pushing his hair back and brushing the blood trickling down his nose with his thumb, Steve who looks at him like he’s _terrified_.

_You’renotreal! You’renotreal! You’renotreal!_

“I’m not upset that you lied to me. I’m not even upset that you didn’t trust me to do the right thing for the team, I’m not upset that you couldn’t give me _that_ much, that you didn’t trust my abilities, my intelligence, my efforts _._ That you couldn’t even find it in yourself to believe me when I said that all I wanted to do was to keep the team together. I’m not even upset that you blame me for tearing the team apart because I signed something that would have happened to _everyone_ anyway!” Tony finally says because he knows Steve would not be here, Steve is _not_ supposed to be here. Steve cannot be in his room when Rhodey isn’t around because that is the condition of his probation. Steve is Rhodey’s shadow, so that can only mean one thing. This is an illusion, like everything else Tony sees when Steve is involved for the past two years. “I’m upset that I can _never_ believe _you_ again.”

And Tony feels the world spin then, feels the walls start to peel like wallpaper being viciously ripped off and he thinks the building is on fire because it’s suddenly raining and he brings his hands up to his ears to cover the sound of the choir singing, to block out the song that that had played in the funeral all those years ago because _it’snotreal, it’snotreal, it’snotreal._

But the rain isn’t water, and it isn’t cold like it had been on that day.

It is red and hot and feels sticky and tastes likes copper instead of the noxious scent of the endless spread of white flowers that Tony still feels disgusted about to his day. It is hot and it is cascading down his scalp, down his eyes, and his nose and his ears and Tony feels his fingers fist against his ears and hair, feels his eyes scrunch close even harder and feels bile starts to rise at the back of his throat.

“Tony!” Steve is running down the church isle and with each step, the church around him crumbles and it’s changing and peeling away the way his Iron Man suit peels away from him, mechanical squares and the scene darkens, dims to the familiar passenger seats at the back of the quinjet, where Tony finds himself strapped to a chair and bleeding down his side and shoulder and this time, Steve kneels in front of him.

And Tony forgets in that moment where he is, what had happened and it feels so _real_ because his shoulder hurt and the data matches up, doesn’t it? Because he’s sitting right there in the quinjet with the rest of the team, after staking out all those Hydra bases, on their way home now, and there’s Natasha piloting the plane, and there’s Rhodey standing beside Steve and right there, he can see Sam and Wanda and Clint and Vision and even Peter and Scott and Bruce and _when the hell did Thor get here_? He’s with the Avengers, the _full_ team, new and old, stronger, better, the goddamn message to the entire universe that says, yeah, come and get us you son of a bitches, _we fucking dare you!_

(Is it?)

“Seargeant Barnes – “ Tony suddenly remembers, like a hot knife cutting through the haze and he starts to struggle against the straps of the seatbelts, but Steve holds him down. “They’re gonna get him – where is he? _Where is he_?”

“Easy, Stark.” Bucky says, and appears from the corner, tentative, unsure, and when Tony looks at him with relief, with something of a whispered smile around the corners of his gaping mouth, Bucky kneels beside his left knee, presses a hand to his leg. “I’m all right. I’m here.”

The sad part of it all, the one that really makes Tony’s face crumple and twist into devastation is the reality of the fact that Tony knows, and _firmly believes_ , that none of these people would look at him this way.

That Steve would never look at him like he’s the _real hero_.

That Bucky wouldn’t look at him like he owes him the world, his entire life. Bucky would never look like he wants to follow him.

Who in their right minds would ever follow Anthony Stark, the most fucked up human being on the goddamn face of the earth?

“You’re not real.” Tony says and shakes his head. “You’re not real, you’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here –“

Tony feels Steve’s hands on his face again, feels him hold his face steady, to stop it from shaking left and right, left and right, wash that vision off, bring back the real world where is alone in a quiet mansion.

“Tony – hey, Tony! I’m here, I’m real – I’m right here –“ Steve tries to say. “See, look, can’t you feel it? My hand, see? I’m right here!”

But it’s not good enough.

It’ll never be good enough.

Because I don’t believe you, anymore!

And when Steve picks up his hand, the one that Tony thinks is still connected to his numb and injured shoulder and presses the dusty and bloody palm against his own cheek, where Tony can feel the beginnings of a stubble, where it prickles and feels so warm and _so real_ , Tony feels his mouth part, feels the _horror_ that makes his vision swim in a sea of red and then, like something rips free from the depths of his miserable and pathetic existence, Tony _screams_.

__

 

And Steve feels his ears _pierce_ with the rawness of Tony’s _fear_ and helplessness.

Steve hears the cries for help that had been smothered for too long, hears the desperation and the remnants of what had once been a man as the screens in the recovery room flare to life all of a sudden and phones starts ringing off the hook – landlines, cellphones, the payphones outside, when he hears the alarmed staff of the facility just back off their monitors simultaneously because every monitor had gone black, then had flickered to a glowing white.

Like how Tony’s eyes had gone black and suddenly starts to glow white within, like flecks of stars growing and growing until it’s so _bright_ that it explodes and consumes everything.

Steve doesn’t think when he wraps his arms around Tony, when he pulls him off the bed and onto the ground and covers him with his own body as the ceiling starts to collapse and all around him, every suit that Tony has created lands with an echoing thud, cracking tiles and linoleum and tearing through concrete and plaster.

Outside the DC compound, the entire Legion surrounds the facility, from Legion 001 all the way up to 125. Where people jump back and drop their bags with echoing startled gasps and Rhodey is tearing through the room and screaming for Tony to _stop._

And Natasha comes too, and Tony looks at them both like he doesn’t know what to do, even after Vision slips through the walls, slips through the suits surrounding them like a protective barrier and asks Tony to calm down. And the ringing of phones goes on and on, stretches outwards like tidal waves in an ocean and Steve doesn’t know how to make Tony stop screaming. Doesn’t know what’s happening, or what he’s doing, or why he can’t seem to stop bleeding from his nose and god, his face is red and the screams doesn’t stop, it doesn’t stop, _Tony doesn’t stop_.

It happens in a flesh.

When Bucky appears by the doorway, pushes Natasha and Rhodey away, elbowing back guards that had been posted outside his recovery and observatory room and he’s _shouting_.

“Hurt him! Steve, you need to _hurt_ him! _He needs to feel pain!”_

Steve doesn’t think twice.

He grabs Tony by the hand, stretches it and brings his elbow down against his forearm, the resounding crack of Tony’s bones making him feel sick to his stomach.

And just like that, the ringing _stops_ , the screens flicker back to their normal settings and the silence comes with Steve’s heavy breathing and the confused murmurs that ripples throughout the facility.

Tony is curled against his side, clutching his arm and _shaking._

The screaming _stops_.

It is as if time rewinds itself because the suits retract and they leave the premises and within seconds, the distant sound of jets disappearing echoes snd fades until it is only the sound of the common hubbub around them that fills the silence. It takes two breaths, and only when Rhodey steps forward and into the mess of the spilled coffee on the floor, because Rhodey had only stepped out into the hall towards the vending machine, it had only been a minute, that Steve too remembers to move.

Steve carefully picks Tony off the floor, lifts his head from where it is touching the cold and cracked linoleum and straightens him so he can take a good look at his face as Rhodey kneels beside him.

Tony is as a white as the sheets on the bed, the corners of his lips blue and his eyes bloodshot, smears of blood coating his upper lip and chin from where it had dripped down his nose; the tracks and smudges are there too, around his ears and neck, soiling the thin cotton hospital gown. Tony holds himself like he doesn’t want to be touched, guards his broken arm with determination. And when Steve tilts his face up, Tony meets his gaze and Steve feels the _relief_ flood through him when he sees brown eyes, tired and worn, and almost unseeing.

Except something in its depths flickers, something so small and something that reminds Steve of days when Tony would successfully  fix something, the short silent whoop of inner hurrah that resembles like very fine diamond dust in its lustre. There, but not.

It comes as quickly as it goes because Tony closes his eyes and lets out a soft breath.

“Come on, Tony.” Steve says, careful as he shifts. “I got you, Shellhead. I got you. You’re okay.”

Steve doesn’t think twice about lifting Tony off the floor and placing him back on the hospital bed, careful to not aggravate his arm. Natasha joins them at the bed then, taking Tony’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Can I go home?” Tony asks softly, like he’s unsure, like he’s not even present there with them, eyes remaining closed.

It is Natasha who answers and the quickness of her reply surprises Steve, too. “Yes. Yes, you can, Tony. Rhodey can take you home right now. We’ll talk later.”

“Sure.” Tony agrees, nodding slowly. “I’ll set up a meeting that’s not two years from now.”

And just like that Steve is forced to step aside as Rhodey helps Tony off the bed, throwing his jacket over his shoulders. Steve watches as Tony straightens as if he had not suffered a critical wound on the side, as if his shoulder hadn’t been ripped open just days ago. Tony stands and walks like he always does, straight backed and chin up, even when he is cradling his broken arm. Tony walks like he hadn’t been under critical care and a coma for _days_.

Steve knows two people in his life who can heal at that rate; himself and the man standing by the door unmoving. The same man Tony looks up to briefly, brown eyes flicking over to the metallic arm that he reaches out to pat twice before he moves down the hall with Rhodey while Natasha goes the other way and is on her phone ordering to bring a chopper to the helipad of their medical facility.

Steve is forced to follow Rhodey, only managing to give Bucky a squeeze to the shoulder before Bucky too walks the opposite way, with Vision gently escorting him back to his room.

This is where Steve feels the most useless.

This is where Steve feels the most helpless.

Because he can do nothing but watch Tony sit quietly throughout the chopper ride, unmoving from his seat as he stares out the window. He can do nothing as Tony walks into Stark manor and climbs up the steps to his room. He can do nothing but follow Rhodey up those very staircase only to watch him make sure that Tony steps into his room, and starts to peel his clothes off to disappear into the shower.

And then they are sitting in the hall as the shower runs and runs until Steve is sure that it is no longer hot but cold.

This is where Steve looks into Rhodey’s eyes and realizes how worn around the seams he is. This is where he sees how Rhodey too, looks helpless.

This is where Steve Rogers decides to stop going against grain of his nature, where he had kept his hands as fists on his side instead of throwing punches, when he had looked off to the corner instead of the thing that he should have never ignored. This is where Steve Roger’s decides that he can no longer keep his mouth shut, that he can’t just pretend it’s _okay,_ when it clearly isn’t.

“Rhodes…” Steve says and clears his throat. “What’s happening to him?”

Rhodey looks _older_ in seconds, lines of worry appearing on his face as he brings a hand up to rub at his cheeks and swipe them over the crown of his head. Rhodey doesn’t answer immediately because he’s looking at Steve like he doesn’t know the answer, like he doesn’t where to even _begin_ as they sit there on the floor, in the middle of the hallway with Dummy dusting furniture just around the corner.

“Hell if I know, Rogers.” He says, _tired_. “I – I honestly, do not _know_ anymore.”

“He’s never going to be okay, is he?” Steve asks, and feels something like a chasm grow at the pit of his stomach.

And Rhodey looks _heartbroken_ , even when his tone is even; Steve knows that strength like that can only come from a man who had lost men in the field, of men of Rhodey’s rank when he had to be strong pillar of support for the rest of his fellow soldiers. “I tell myself that he will be.”

(You get it and you know that when you sound like that, when you smile despite the pain, despite how death is slowly tugging at the souls of men waiting to move on, you know that the only hope that is left is hope for stillness and final rest.)

Steve looks up from where he finds himself staring at his hands. Hands that felt the tremors under Tony’s skin, hands that had felt the flinch on his face, the heat of the blood that he had tried to wipe off the ghost of handsome face. Still handsome, still charming, still _everything_ – just duller, tired, distant, and maybe just a little _used_.

“Is he dying?” Steve is not breathing.

Rhodey shakes his head. “We talking literally?”

Steve’s gaze snaps up and he thinks Rhodey is honestly joking, that he can’t be serious when he throws a sarcastic remark like that about Tony, his best friend, the man who had gone beyond his means to try to protect them because that is what Natasha had told him, right? Of her ‘theories’ that all these years, all these times when agencies all over had _nothing_ to sue Steve Roger’s with, is because of Tony. Because Tony, even from far, even when he had pushed everyone away, when he made it look like he had no interest in becoming a hero, that he is retired or on hiatus, or he is focusing on his business and legacy, he had everyone’s back down to a T.

(And you remember thinking Tony is a hypocrite for doing that behind the Accords’ back, you think Tony had gone against everything he had wanted to be accounted for. And you remember feeling the rage then, remember going to your room somewhere in the outskirts of Phuket, a little rundown apartment with the roar of the typhoon raging outside, and you remember how you had taken everything in your room and smashed them against the wall. You remember upturning the bed, remember banging furniture until they lay in pieces around your room, and you remember how no one had asked you why you were angry, or why you had kept quiet when all you wanted to do then was grab Tony and tell him that what he’s doing now, what he’s doing on their behalf, protecting them, that was point you were trying to make _all along_.

That the best hands are still the Avengers’ own.

But now, you realize, how pointless it had been to follow that idea when everyone around you, aspiring superheroes, ‘kids with a  gimmick’ as Sam had put it, starts the whole monkey see, monkey do trick. When a war had broken out between superheroes because of a divide that truly, in the long run, should have never happened, the war on the streets between those registered under the Accords’ act and the Resistance, when the casualties had started from one to ten to a hundred and then thousands, when it had started in one town and then moved over to the next village, the next city, when it had suddenly turned to a global street war, you knew then that maybe, just maybe, it is hopeless; the lives of thousands of innocents is not worth one ideology, _your_ ideology. And maybe, Sam is right; that wars now are fought through politics first, fists later because the sad truth about _this_ time and era, is that Freedom is actually _chaos_. Because, while Tony may have been a hypocrite, Tony had stopped pretending to be a hero. Not the way you were still trying to be the hero that the world deserves. Tony had stopped being Iron Man; the suit had _vanished_.

Up until when he had to protect _you_.

And when he had to protect _Bucky_.

Deep down, you _know_ that Tony did that _for you_.)

“Rhodey, I want to help.” Steve says, and there’s desperation in his voice. “Tell me what I can do to help. How can I fix this?”

Rhodey _laughs_ ; he sits there, in the middle of the hall with his laughter bouncing off the corridors and Steve is not blind when he sees the moisture that Rhodey refuses to allow to fall from the corners of his eyes build up. Steve is not blind when he sees how Rhodey looks up at the ceiling and blinks it away.

“I don’t know, Rogers.” Rhodey brings a hand up to his chest and rubs something there, as if trying to ease whatever storm that is raging under his ribcage. “I really, _really_ , don’t know. Sometimes, I really think that he should have just died.” Rhodey admits, and his lips twists into a angry and disgusted snarl. “It looks a lot easier than what he’s going through now.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve _whispers_ , because that is a horrible thing to say. Tony doesn’t deserve that.

“Why not?” Rhodey looks at him then, angry, rage blazing in his eyes. “Why not, Steve? You should have finished the job in Siberia when you decided to leave him behind.”

“I shouldn’t have –“

“But you _did_.” Rhodey _hisses_ and there it is, everything that a respectable man had kept under a rug under the pretense of duty and honor comes out then like an ugly monster, how it twists his face and flushes his cheeks. “You _did_ , Rogers and you can grovel all you like _now_ , it’s not going to change anything. Just like how Tony has _grovelled_ for years, not just over you and how you blamed him for destroying a team that meant to him in ways that he’ll _never_ admit, hell, he’s still grovelling now because the both of you are too fucking stubborn to see out of your goddamn asses – what is the _point_? Would it have been _so hard_ for you _try_ to sign the Accords in the beginning? To give it a _shot_? I mean think about it, you could have just fucked off the way you did before you even tried and do what you did _anyway_. But would it have _killed you_ to try?”

“That’s not what I wanted to do, Rhodey, and you know it.” Steve says, defensive.

“ _I know_!” Rhodey snaps, getting up to his feet. “But would it have _killed you_ , answer the goddamn question, _soldier_.”

Steve brings up his knees to rest his forearms against it, shaking his head as he props his elbows on his knee caps and covers his mouth with his palms. Because no, and this had been the very thought that had kept him up at night when the body count had started to escalate, when Steve had started to develop doubts about his decisions.

Because the truth is this:

“No.” Steve says, a quiet whisper. “It wouldn’t have.”

Rhodey spreads his arms open, eyes widening as if to _punctuate_ the statement and then he’s slapping his hands against his legs and turning around to pace in the hallway.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Steve says, swallowing the lump in his throat as the burn starts to flare behind his eyelids. “Doesn’t that count?”

“I hope so.” Rhodey says, shaking his head and _sighing_. “I goddamn well hope so, because if it doesn’t, I standby what I said: you should have killed him. Because this – whatever _this is_ – is not worth _shit_. Death would have been a _mercy_.”

Steve looks up in alarm and sees how _serious_ Rhodey is, how he’s willing to slap that cold statement out there. But the alarm turns to horror when Steve suddenly stands up because Tony is standing by his bedroom door, shirtless and in his sweatpants, casually leaning against the doorframe, pale and slimmer than what Steve remembers fro. Years ago, his broken arm seemingly fine and not as swollen as it had been some time ago, even if Tony is still cradling it in his good arm.

“He’s right.” Tony says, and leaves his room quietly as bare feet make no noise while he descends the stairs.

Steve doesn’t wait for Rhodey to stop him because he is on his feet and following Tony down the stairs, crossing the few steps ahead of him as he reaches for Tony’s wrist and _grabs_ him to _stop_ him from walking away, because you can’t be serious, you can’t say that and mean it, you can’t think you’re not worth being alive, that you don’t belong here, that your hard work doesn’t deserve a chance in the light that the only thing you’re good for is being dead.

“You don’t mean that.” Steve says, voice thick. “Tony, you don’t mean that, do you?”

Tony doesn’t move in his hold, not when Steve steps in front of him and holds him by the arms, _holds_ him there in _place_ , because he doesn’t want to Tony to walk away, doesn’t want to Tony to escape, or run, or hide: no more. So Steve _holds_ him, hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into bare flesh as he looks him in the eye, with but a breath between them and searches the depths of those once cheeky, brilliant brown eyes. He looks for something, _any_ flicker of the light, the arrogance, the _brilliance_ of the man Steve had counted on as support on numerous times, and that’s what Tony had done, right? All these years? He had always been present in more ways than one to _everyone_ ; sure, he had been loud and outright _obnoxious_ about it, had acted like he didn’t give a fuck about team playing, that he flies solo – but how did he always say it again? Oh yes, ‘Call it, Cap’ is what Tony _always_ ends up saying.

But there is _nothing_ there.

There is just _silence_.

Just like Tony’s tongue.

And seeing this _now_ , this _shell_ of what Steve still thinks belongs to one of the bravest man he’d ever known, this _breaks_ him, rips something right out of his chest because now, _clearer_ than ever, he sees the devastation he has left behind.

And it hurts.

Sweet Jesus, does it _hurt_ when Tony lifts a shoulder up in a _shrug_ , when his head moves in the slightest of shakes. Steve doesn’t dare let him go then, and closes the space between and wraps his arm around this man who truly, despite what he says, wouldn’t cut the wire, but leave it for the others to cross.

“I’m sorry.” Steve says and doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice as the pressure in his head almost blinds him because god, he _can’t_ breathe. And when he inhales, he can taste the bitterness in his tongue and guilt, and all the deaths of all those people, he can smell the shampoo and musky scent of whatever it is that Tony uses, can feel the cold skin under his fingertips and hear the slow beat of Tony’s heart from where his chest if pressed flat against his own. “I’m here now, and I swear to you, I’ll make it right. I’ll do _anything_ , to make it right, Tony, I promise. We’ll keep the team together even if it takes years, we’ll be strong.” Steve sucks in a breath. “I goddamn _promise_.”

And for a moment, Steve thinks Tony hears him. For a moment, he thinks Tony may just understand him because when he pulls away, Tony’s lips twitches up into a small smile as he brings up a hand to press against his chest.

“I’m sorry, Steve.” Tony says as he presses a hand to his chest and shakes his head, like it’s pointless, like it’s _hopeless_. “I don’t believe you.”

“But I’m here! Tony, I’m real! I’m not a figment of your imagination, I’m not a dream, I’m not a nightmare, I’m _right here!_ ” Steve doesn’t realize he’s shouting the words out, syllables bouncing off the walls, even as he grabs Tony’s hands that are trembling, trembles that he tries to stop by squeezing warmth into hands that feel icy from the cold shower Tony must have ended up staying under for a long time. He presses those hands to his cheek. “ _I’m real_! I’m here! With you! Now! And I’m not leaving you! Do you hear me, Tony? I’m right  _here_!”

But Tony doesn’t hear him, Tony doesn’t even answer him but just shakes his head even as his thumb swipes over a cheekbone once, and Tony pulls his hands away to walk past Steve into the kitchen. Tony leaves Steve there in the middle of the hall with the world around him blurring, heat in his eyes, even as he follows Rhodey into the kitchen too, and watches him take out the wine glasses while Tony takes out a bottle of wine from the rack.

And Steve sits there, watching Tony drink one glass, then two, then three, watches as Rhodey pours him one glass after the other, watches as Rhodey rubs a hand on his back, doesn’t tell Tony he’s had enough, doesn’t tell Tony that he should go to sleep, and they’ll talk in the morning like what normal people do.

That’s the thing though: there is nothing _normal_ about all this.

“Rhodey?” Tony says, as he stares at a wine bottle from where his flushed face is pressed against the cool counter of the kitchen island. Steve is sitting right in front of Tony, is in the middle of his field of vision, and Steve doesn’t even realize that he sits there mourning, mourning for a friend who is _gone_. Completely, and utterly, _gone._

The funny thing is that Tony didn’t even need an organization like Hydra to mess him up this bad.

Tony did it all on his own.

“Yeah, buddy?” Rhodey says.

“I have an idea.” Tony says, closing his eyes. “If it works on me, maybe it’ll work on Barnes.”

“What is it, Tones?”

Tony _smiles_ , like he’s thinking of something _pleasant_. “I think I can re-program Extremis to erase my memories. If I erase them, if I forget everything, maybe then I’ll stop seeing things. It’ll stop – god, it’ll _all stop._ Reformat the hard drive. That way, maybe I can be in Cap’s team again, right? If I can get over my daddy issues, my team issues, my everything-issues, I won’t be a liability. Wouldn’t that be _great?_ ”

Steve has no time to even comprehend what the flying _fuck_ Extremis is.

Because he’s so busy staring at Tony who starts to _laugh_ , and it’s got to be a joke, it has to be a joke. _Please tell me that’s a joke, you can’t mean that!_

But Rhodey isn’t laughing with Tony, he isn’t even questioning the _statement_.

And all Steve can think of with horror that tastes like bile in his throat is: _my god._  
  


TBC 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE THIS FUCKING CHAPTER! Oh my god, this chapter honestly had like, 3 versions because I kept writing and scrapping, writing and scrapping, and honestly, writing Steve back into this felt like pulling goddamn teeth. Trying to salvage the Steve/Tony ANYTHING at this point is beyond hope. I have tried.
> 
> A lot of the comments seem to agree that it makes more sense for WinterIron; NO KIDDING. I’m just sitting here like, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! 
> 
> Now, I hate to admit it, but gosh, Bucky IS SEXY, isn't he? I AM ASHAMED!
> 
> But, anyway, I know I said it’s uphill like two chapters ago, but I think, for sure, NOW, it should be uphill. I cannot write more depressing Tony after this. This has got to be rock bottom, I believe.


	8. Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. Please forgive typos/grammar in advanced. I keep re-reading and editing as I go because I miss some while proof reading each damn time.
> 
> Onwards we go to a very boooooooooooooooring chapter (oh boy).

“I don’t want just words. If that’s all you have for me, you’d better go”   
― [F. Scott Fitzgerald](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3190.F_Scott_Fitzgerald), [The Beautiful and Damned](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2432116)

   
The truth is, since that night, Steve had not been able to sleep at all.

Rhodey had been tensed ever since, mostly a silent figure when on campus with hard lines cutting against the sharp angles of his face and jaw. Steve does not need words to know how upset Rhodey is, or how concerned he is when Rhodey thinks no one is looking when he dials Tony’s number and gets Friday instead. One week after that evening, the calls are rerouted to Pepper and when Pepper _confirms_ that Tony has taken a leave of absence from Stark Industries, Steve thinks it’s peculiar that Rhodey had waited almost two weeks before driving back to Stark manor to check up on Tony himself.

Steve does not ask questions when Rhodey climbs up the stairs, walking right past Friday, only to come down looking like the entire weigh of the world had been placed on his shoulders..

It’s the only time Steve questions. “Is everything okay?”

“He’s asleep.” Rhodey says and flops down heavily on the sofa getting comfortable. “Sorry, Steve, but you’re going to have to chill here for a while. Wake me up when he gets up, would you Friday?”

“Certainly, Colonel Rhodes.” Friday says and then turns to face Steve. “Shall I do the same with you, Captain Rogers?”

One look at Rhodey and Steve shakes his head. He is only present because of the condition of his freedom.

“No, Friday. I don’t have to be present during their conversation.”

Friday gives a nod before she fades away from existence and Steve doesn’t say a goddamn word when Rhodey sighs deeply, exhaustion winning over the need to stay conscious and do damage control, as he promptly falls asleep. Steve finds himself sitting alone on the couch then, with nothing but the pitch silence of the home that Tony had grown up in. Right there, in the comfortable single seater, Steve stares at the ceiling and tries to gather his thoughts, a thousand questions going through his mind. He tries to think of why Tony may have decided to turn into a hermit. He wonders if maybe the reason for that is because Tony really is developing technology that can erase memories, and whatever the hell Extremis is. Maybe Tony doesn’t remember them anymore because he had gone ahead and done exactly what he thinks will make him less of a liability in Steve’s eyes. So Steve tries to push those thoughts away for now, tries to sleep, tries to keep his eyes closed, but the silence of the house is far too loud, that not even Rhodey’s soft and even breaths is enough to break it.

Steven can still remember everything so vividly from two weeks ago.

(You would have never guessed that Tony’s throat had been capable of screaming that loud. You would have never known how Tony even looks like when he’s scrambling for ideas to fix things that really, because it’s ingrained in him, to fix things, to _try_ to fix things with his hands, while he’s wasted and looking ready to pass out. You would have never guessed that this man, who looks at you know with a gaze so clear, as if his mind wasn’t falling apart, was a man who was actually falling apart. And you realize just how good Tony is at compartmentalizing things. You would have never guessed.

But then again, Tony had you fooled, too. That was why you didn’t look closer.)

Being inside those walls that Tony calls a home is suffocating.

So Steve finds himself wondering if this is the kind of home Tony had come back to all this time. Did he sit in this very couch, counting the crystals of the chandelier hanging above? Did he go deaf from the silence? Did he stand and walk these halls, the way Steve does because he cannot sit still, he cannot keep the thoughts in his head as silence as the house that is as cold as the marble under his feet. So he walks down the hallway, not a sound in his step, staring at photos and paintings that betrays nothing about the family that had lived within those very walls. Everything around the house is so put together, so orchestrated, with modern themes and a whisper of baroque tucked away and barely visible. Steve sees it in some of the finer hand painted vases, or the crystal sculptures in one of the rooms. He sees it in the woodwork of some of the picture frames, or a tapestry in the dining room.

Steve does not feel like he is walking through a home.

He feels like he is walking through a museum.

(Makes you wonder, how much of Tony did you really _know?_ )

He finds Tony’s workshop and it is what he expects it to be. Dummy whirs awake and approaches Steve when he walks in, which surprises Steve, because he had assumed that Friday would not let him access anything. But he walks right in, and gently pats the bot that hums a touch excitedly at him, You and Butterfingers also shifting form their corners to look in his direction. And right there, on one side of the workshop, beyond a glass wall, Steve can see three of the Iron Man suits, two of which he recognises, and one he doesn’t. It looks like a new design, one that gleams white and silver, it’s eyes a sharp blue, not a hint of the signature and bold gold and red. The workshop, Steve thinks, is the one place in the entire house that does not feel icy cold. There are a few coffee mugs on the workbench, a pen here, a sharpie there, post-its on the wall, formulas scribbled on the whiteboard, a t-shirt hanging over the leather sofa at the back of room — here, Steve thinks, he can breathe because there _is_ air.

“At least you guys are around, huh?” Steve says, running his fingers over Dummy, who makes a mechanical cooing noise before wheeling away to his charging post.

Steve doesn’t linger, nor does he touch anything and he knows it is Friday who switches the lights off as he steps out of the workshop. He returns to the kitchen where he rolls up the sleeve of his button down checkered shirt and starts clearing up the empty bottles. Steve busies himself by doing the dishes and restoring order to the drunken chaos that is evidence at just how bad of alcoholic Tony truly is. Steve tries to remember a time during their shared living arrangements at the tower if Tony had even drunk this much. He picks up the pieces until everything looks as good as new and when he stands there, looking at everything gleaming, Steve finds himself wishing, with all his heart, if only things are this easy to fix. If only it had been this easy to pick up the pieces he had left behind and return them to their proper places, sweep up the broken pieces, wipe the stains clean.

And this is where Steve feels hopelessness swallow him into the silent vacuum of a house that does nothing but make the hairs at the back of his neck stand on edge. This is where he feels his weight sink into the wooden stool as he stares ahead, beyond the glass that stretches across one side of the kitchen, staring into the gleam of the pool’s large surface, and fireflies illuminating the garden

Here is when Steve truly understands the gravity of poor decisions. Because the truth is, that neither he nor Tony had been wrong to have their own beliefs, neither of them had been wrong to want to fight for it. But Steve had been made privy of how fighting for his own beliefs had more or less turned the world into a breeding ground of rebellious chaos. Now that he is a part of Accords, he truly can see just how many lives had been put under the knife trying to _contain_ that chaos, to minimize damage that just keeps coming in droves. He spends his day trying to do his best to make things right – because better late than never – and spends his nights hearing prayers at a funeral and seeing bodies being pulled out of collapsed buildings, or fires or floors, when he hears of craters and lost homes because there had been a fist fight between the Resistance and the Taskforce.

Steve has had many thoughts and many months to re-assess his previous decisions.

And really, would it have been so hard to try it Tony’s way the first time around, indeed.

Steve still thinks that the resistance would have happened _anyway_ ,  just like how the Accords would have happened anyway.

(But the resistance did not need Captain America as a prime example. Captain America does not stand for unnecessary bloodshed and this, Steve, this is really bloodshed on the streets. This is a different war, now. At least back then, killing Nazis had been simpler because that had been a fight between a Tyrant wanting to eradicate lives that had not matched his ideals _en masse_ while this, this war now, is simply two conflicting ideas that honestly, think about it, does not even have to be a conflict. And even if it is two sides of the same coin, there is not need to involve _innocent lives_ in casualties, right?)

Steve gets a migraine just thinking, one thought like a falling domino piece and then everything just falls from there.

He doesn’t know where one thought begins and where one thought ends.

And for a moment, he thinks he is standing in the bunker in Siberia, and he is staring down at Tony’s form on the floor, the light on his chest gone, except his face is bloodier, and there is a red stream trickling down his nose and mouth, and there he is, Captain America himself, and he’s bring his fist down, one time, two times, until Tony’s face is about as unreadbale as the man that Steve sees now, just a mesh of broken bones and torn flesh, a puddle of blood and the remains of what had to have been a handsome and charismatic face, a genius.

(You broke him.)

The thought _jolts_ Steve, shakes him to his very core as he sucks in a breath and wrenches himself off the surface of the kitchen island where he had slumped earlier and had fallen asleep for maybe a few minutes, or maybe an hour – Steve doesn’t know.

But gods, does he hate this _house_.

It is but an extravagant reminder of just how _hollow_ Tony really is.

All wonderful, and attractive and expensive on the outside.

But cold and empty and _alone_ on the inside.

(Now you wonder if this is all Tony had ever known from the beginning. If it is this feeling of drowning, of suffocating, of being crushed, of feeling like you’re worth nothing but the empty walls that boxes you in, if that is where you find comfort.)

Steve straightens off the stool and is about tell Friday that he’ll just be outside, in the garden or the pool, or anywhere that doesn’t take him too far from Rhodey that is _not_ this house, but stops short when he hears the faint murmurs of conversation. The house is that quiet that even from several rooms down, Steve knows that Rhodey must be conversing with someone. So he heads over there, to tell Rhodey himself that he’s going to find a bench by the pool and call it a night there, except he doesn’t get very far because he can hear Rhodey speaking to Tony, and he finds himself rooted, in the middle of the corridor as he listens in.

“You can’t live like this forever, Tony. You can’t keep running away from everyone, you can’t keep _avoiding_ Steve if you’re going to be doing the things you’re doing. It is impossible, you know Steve, hell, you know the team.” Rhodey says, and he sounds _tired_.

“You’re right. I can’t. But goddamn if I’m not going to _try_.” Tony responds, just as tired.

“Tones…” Rhodey sighs and Steve can hear the pinch in his voice that is normally never there. But it hasn’t been easy for Rhodey either, between duty, the paralysis, healing, watching his best friend nearly destroy himself with the guilt and hard work in trying to help him walk again – Steve _cannot_ blame him. “How far have you gone?”

“It’s ready.” Tony says and there is a soft clinking noise of glass being set down. Steve feels his eyes close in frustration because Tony is drinking again and Rhodey is doing nothing to stop him.

(Can he though?)

“I’m guessing because you still remember me, you haven’t used it yet.”

“Nope.” Tony responds. “You’ll know when I do.”

Rhodey is quiet for a moment and Steve wonders if they know that he’s listening in. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Probably working.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“On Christmas? No party? No fine lady to woo and bang? Or a gent to get banged by?”

The laugh that tears down the walls of the house is sudden and loud that Steve stands there as the waves of it washes over him, until it dies down to a gentle echo somewhere down the hallways and past the walls and into the gardens. The laugh is a touch high pitched, like Tony is embarrassed and Steve can imagine that his cheeks must be a touch red, especially if he laughs like _that_. Like he’s blushing.

“Oh, teddy bear, I can’t tell you all my plans~”

“Yah, coz’ they don’t exist. Really, Tones, when _was_ the last time you got laid?” The pause is a long one. “No way. Are you fucking kidding me?” This time it is Rhodey’s laugh that reverberates all across the mansion. “You’re telling me that you’ve never –“

“I’ve been very hard working, in case you haven’t noticed!”

“That’s never stopped you before! What, you getting performance issues in your old age? I know what I’m getting you for Chirstmas, then. Magic blue pills.”

Rhodey is _laughing_ to the point that he is _wheezing_ and his laugh is infectious that even Tony is laughing too; had the situation been any different, Steve would have chuckled as well, would have felt embarrassed on Tony’s behalf because such things are man’s private matters. But the situation is so abnormal, that Steve knows that Tony probably doesn’t do what he enjoys anymore because he _can’t_.

Because he’s so busy trying to crucify himself and ripping pieces of his flesh off as torturous punishment for things that, if one is being honest, hadn’t been in control. Because everybody always starts with good intentions, everyone starts off with the idea to stand up for something good; the choices that lead up to that is never as easy as the belief in mind.

(You know this too well, Stevie-boy. Only too well.)

“Remember that time when you wanted to form a band?”

“Ah yes, my glorious days when my singular goal in life was to piss dad off _so_ bad – “

“—that he’d want to come and kill me himself.” Rhodey says in tandem with Tony’s words and they both burst out laughing, which ends up with a hint of hysteria in it and Steve doesn’t get it.

“Oh my god, no, no, I got a better one. Forget the band! Do you remember that time in Miami when someone offered you to audition to be an additional member of the Backstreet Boys?” Rhodey asks, voice a pitch higher.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Rhodes! How do you remember this shit!”

He doesn’t understand Tony, nor does he understand Rhodey; but what he can understand is that this is an unbreakable bond. That even through thick and thin, Rhodey is to Tony like Bucky is to Steve. But Steve knows, at some point, it will not be enough, just like how these days, even though Bucky is safe, has been for years, Steve knows that the Bucky he had grown up with might still be there, but it is no longer him. The present Bucky can never go back to the Bucky of old and Steve remembers nights, when Bucky had not been under, where they’d sit the same way Rhodey and Tony are right now, and _laugh_. They would laugh about the good old days, about Dot and Patty and Ginger, and Sally and Grace, and all the other women Bucky had tried to hook Steve with. They’d talk about Rebel and Izzy, and Junior and their jokes, memories of their drinking games, memories of their nights trying to catch some sleep in the field, the terrible jokes that had been passed around between them – they’d talk of the good times when they had been less aware of how the world had truly worked, when their goal had been single and killing Nazis and all they had wanted to do had been the right thing and to serve the country.

Steve doesn’t understand half the references that are passed between Rhodey and Tony, he doesn’t know what Wham! is or what on earth is Duran Duran. He does not recognize the name Freddie Mercury, or any of the other names that is spoken of between them, in between giggles and fits of laughter and clinks of glass.

But Steve knows that memories are about as fickle as they come and sometimes, to some men, memories are not enough to hold on to the present.

(Just like Bucky; he said it himself. Sometimes, the wight of your sims from the present is a lot heavier than the good you have done in the past. There is no going back. You can only evolve and hope you remain sane. That you can try to be the good guy, this time.)

Rhodey no longer has the power to change Tony’s mind.

“Those were good times, Tony. They were real good.” Rhodey says.

“As good as they can get, buddy.” Tony responds, Steve feels himself lean against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“Tony, before you do whatever it is you’re planning to do, I want you to really think about it.”

“Oh!” There is a sharp clank and Steve thinks Tony must have slammed something against a flat surface. “Oh _I get it._ This little trip down memory lane – you know what, James, that’s low. Even for you, that is just _low_. Spending all that time with Steve – “

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it, Tones.”

“—you are coming in here and trying to convince me it is not okay to go through with Extremis 2.0 –“

“—final warning, Tony.”

“— because oh, heaven forbid me trying to want to have something _normal_ for a change can mean the world’s destruction --”

There is a resounding crack and Steve’s feet are moving because he knows a fight when he hears it. He also knows that it is Rhodey who must have thrown the first punch but Steve does not get very far, because Friday is standing before him all of a sudden and shaking here head.

“I am sorry, Captain Rogers. I am going to have to ask you to give them some privacy. These are Colonel Rhodes’ words and he is _requesting_ you give him that courtesy, regardless of what you may hear or what happens.”

“He said that?” Steve sounds incredulous, because he can hear things breaking just right there, in the next room.

“Yes.”

“But –“

“Do not overstep your boundaries, Captain Rogers.” Friday says. “You’ll only make this worse.”

And Steve remembers a time when Natasha had said that to him and boy oh boy had she been _right_. There is ice underneath his feet as Steve balls his fists and stands there like a statue as the storm of glass and vicious words are thrown back and forth, as two friends, the best of them, show their ugly sides. The funny thing is, Steve understands where Rhodey is coming from, he understands why he wants Tony to not do this.

He _understands_.

“Goddamnit, Tony!”

“You put yourself in my shoes, Rhodes! You do it! Goddamnit, you fucking be _me_ for _one day_ for a goddamn change –“

“—will you listen with your goddamn ears and not your ego for just one fucking _second_!”

“You sound exactly like him!”

“No, you just think I sound exactly like him because you don’t want to admit that you were at your _happiest_ when he was around, when you were with the team, when you _finally_ got to have the one person that was used as a measuring stick for your goddamn _worth_ on your side, and he _liked_ you when you were convinced that he would never see Howard 2.0 as anything but the trash he is, when you know that everything about that statement it is absolute _bullshit_! You _know_ it, _Anthony_! And don’t you _dare_ pretend that you don’t! Daddy issues aside – you knew it and you still do!”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t!” Tony _yells_.

“Yes, Tony, it is. It’s always been about Steve. Right from the beginning! And there’s nothing _wrong_ with that – no, no, listen – _listen to me!_ ” Steve’s eyes are wide as the silence passes between the cold air of the house, as if on a standstill. “I know you. I know Extremis 2.0 will work, but I also know, that no matter how brilliant your inventions are, the first version always comes with bugs that you end up solving _after_ you’ve created it. I am of the opinion that Extremis 2.0 is no exception and maybe, you’re right. Maybe erasing your memories will make you stronger, sharper, and stop seeing things that aren’t there.”

“How did –“

“Sometimes, I feel I should be insulted with how blind or stupid you think I am. Jesus, Tony.” Rhodey _sighs_ , heavy, and _exhausted_ , voice softer. “All I’m _asking_ you is that you try to make it work, _one more time_. I’d like to think I’m a good judge of character, I’ve stuck around you for a long and time and no, no, I don’t regret a day, even during those times when I risked my _career_ for your sorry ass. Numerous times. You remember those?” There is a pause. “I am not afraid that you’ll forget the team, that you’ll forget Rogers, for goodness sakes. Maybe that’ll do you _some good_ in the long run. No, no, what I’m afraid of, is that you’ll forget the things that made you, well, _you_. You know, the guy who can rock out a guitar or play Bach, unbelievably. The guy who nearly became a member of the Backstreet boys, the guy who danced on bar tops, the guy who _helped this world_ , who has actually made a _difference_ – the guy who helped me _walk_ again. That’s the guy I am afraid of losing, man. You can’t guarantee me that you’ve taken that into account with 2.0. You _can’t_.”

“What the hell are you _saying_?” Tony asks, and his voice _trembles_.

“I’m saying _try_. One last time, just try to make it work with Rogers, with Barnes, with the team. Because, Tones, I’ve seen you at your worst and I’ve seen you at your best. You were at your best when you were part of the Avengers, no matter how hard you try to pretend or hide it. You can fool everyone. You cannot fool me. Hell, you cannot even fool Pepper for that matter, and you kept a lot of things from her.”

“Did she put you up to this?”

“She may have expressed some concerns too – no, she doesn’t know jack about Extremis, don’t worry.” Rhodey sucks in an audible breath. “One more time, Tony. And if all else fails, if it backfires, I’ll assist you with administering Extremis myself. Trying isn’t going to kill you, you may just surprise yourself – no, I’m serious think about it. At this _point_ , what else have you got to lose? Your mind? Tony, it’s been long gone since your break up with Steve in Siberia.”

“He’ll hear you, you know, and think of something else?”

“What, it isn’t what I say it is? Tony, you’ve loved Captain America for as long as I can remember, since you were a kid – Maria showed me those photos, stop pretending that it never existed, it _did_.”

“I do _not_ love him, he doesn’t deserve it!”

“You do or otherwise, you would have never protected him the way you did all these years. A greater man would have walked away from that clusterfuck. And no, maybe he didn’t deserve it.”

“He doesn’t even _like me_! He doesn’t _care_! I don’t mean _jack_ to him, James.”

“Probably not.” Rhodey shrugs and Steve wants to barge in there and tell them that it’s no true. “But you mean something to _me_. And Pepper. So for all the _garbage_ you put us through for years, you owe us _this much of an effort_ at this point before you go in guns blazing to fix a problem that you and I both know can _never_ be fixed, even if you erase your memories. You know _that_. So just this one, single, try. Would it _kill you_ to try?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well, you know what, neither are the conditions of being your friend, apparently. But we’re still here. You _owe_ us this _much_ , Tony. So man the fuck up and stop being a goddamn baby! I am sick and tired of this _shit_. Since when did Tony Stark become a shut in? You know what, you better show up at that stupid thing in London or so help me, I am gonna come here with War Machine and beat you to the goddamn ground.”

“Rhodey, threatening me is not going to help.”

“You shut the fuck up. I’ve been planning this conversation for a whole year. You keep your mouth shut. Yeah, yeah, that’s better. Exactly.”

The silence that falls after that makes Steve take a step forward. But he doesn’t get far because he hears Tony saying he’s going back to bed and then he’s standing there, barefoot, in his sweatpants, in the middle of the hall _staring_ right at Steve, eyes rimmed red and pale, goosebumps all over his bare back, arms and chest – this is not the Tony Steve knows. This is just the broken parts of him, standing there surrounded by the shadows of his home.

Tony doesn’t say a thing to him.

He just turns ahead and continues to walk down the hall to disappear up the stairs.

And Steve thinks, that Tony not giving him the time of day, is something he truly deserves.

\--

Tony wakes up _hungry_.

This is a rare thing in and of itself because it’s bone deep, a sensation that pools like clawing fingers in the pits of his gut and a thirst so harsh that it feels like had drowned in sand instead of alcohol from the previous night. And that is where the confusion clears when Tony realizes that he had been asleep for the past thirty-six hours. He knows this because Friday informs him when he sits up in a bed where sheets are tangled and damp, he knows this because he sees the note Rhodey leaves by the bedside table along with a container of aspirin. Tony doesn’t think twice as he pops three pills out and swallows it dry.

And just like that, Tony feels his mind switch off as he gets out of bed and feels the stiffness in his joints and muscle. He picks up his running shoes on the way, doesn’t even bother to change as he ascends the stairs and rats of an entire menu list of food items for Friday to order: pizza, spaghetti, salad, croquettes, buffalo wings, chicken and waffles, donuts, cheeseburgers, burrito, taco – Tony does not care. He leaves Friday to handle the deliveries and heads straight for the recreational room on the far side of the mansion, where he straps on his running shoes, gets on the treadmill, and runs.

Tony runs and runs while he watches Friday flick one e-mail after the other in front of him. He runs as he reviews his outstanding agendas with Stark Industries, runs as he responds to e-mail, troubleshoots issues from his development team and discard old and no longer valid e-mails. Tony does not stop running even after Friday tells him that his ‘breakfast’ is waiting for him in the kitchen and that it is getting cold. And when the e-mails and voice messages have all been responded too, Tony asks Friday to bring out the filtered ones, the voice mails he does _not_ like to answer and they usually come from people like Steve.

Steve leaves him twelve messages over the course of three days. Mostly they are messages of him checking up on him, wondering if he’s okay, if he had left the house. The last two had been Steve asking him if they can really, truly, sit down and _talk_.

Tony ignores all of it.

There are few calls from newspapers and magazines, some persistent reporters that Tony ignores completely and some persistent PR representatives from companies that are dying to be a part of the Star Industries conglomerate. Those go ignored too.

He does not forget about Natasha and sends her a message to come by the mansion whenever she wants that week for that talk he had promised her when she had allowed him to go home.

Tony proceeds to attack his Initiations folder, responding with either an exhaled yes or no as his legs keep moving while Friday narrates what each invitation is about. Tony turns down several galas, fundraising events, birthday invites even if they come from Kanye West and Donald Trump, except for two things.

T’challa’s sponsored charity event in London and a late-birthday-party invite from Cassie. And this is where Tony actually plays the video-invitation and watches as Cassie waves at the camera and smile with her two front teeth missing, all the while sitting on Scott’s lap who looks a little embarrassed, a little unsure, like he had no choice in the matter.

“Hello, Mister Stark, thank you for helping my daddy out! It’s my late birthday party on Friday because daddy missed three of my birthdays, so we’re throwing another party! I know you are very busy but I wanted to invite you because you are daddy’s friend and you helped my daddy get a job and now daddy won’t have to miss my birthdays and Christmas and Thanksgiving and my games at school anymore. I hope you can come! Bye Mister Stark!”

Tony finds himself slowing down from his run as the video continues and Cassie hops off Scott’s lap and presses a kiss to his cheek, telling him that she’s is going to tell mommy that she invited daddy’s friend. Tony had expected the video to cut off, but it doesn’t and instead, Scott sits there, rubbing the back of his head and looking awkward.

“Listen, if you get this, which you probably won’t, I wouldn’t know, you seem to have a lot of things on your plate these days – you don’t have to come. I couldn’t lie to her or pretend that I wasn’t doing what I agreed to do with her, which was to invite you to her ‘birthday’, I mean, I didn’t want to lie to her anymore, because I promised her that I wouldn’t and – ugh, god,  that’s not the point. Going off track…” Scott reaches up with both hands and rubs the back of his head, like he’s searching for words. Tony doesn’t realize that he had stopped running all together. “Thank you, for helping me out. For giving me a respectable job and decent wage that I can meet the requirements that will allow me to meet my daughter. All things aside, I don’t care about that anymore, the fights, the Accords, whatever disagreements, the Raft – thanks. I mean, that. She thinks we’re friends, that Antman and Iron Man are cool bros – I don’t want her to think otherwise. That’s how kids should see their heroes, right? That they get along?” Scott gives the camera a bit of a shy smile, and Tony can see how his cheeks darken just the tiniest bit as he mutters the address in San Francisco for the late-birthday-party and the feed cuts off.

Tony doesn’t respond to the invitation.

He doesn’t delete it either.

He also cannot seem to forget about that silly, not-worth-his-time invitation out of his head.

Even after he washes the sweat off, after he shaves and changes into cleaner sweatpants, even after he sits through his box of pizza and container of spaghetti, and is half way through emptying his box of buffalo wings and taco with a hunger that consumes him with a vengeance, he can still hear Cassie’s high pitched, _annoying_ voice gritting in his ears, how she had sounded so _hopeful_. He puts himself on edge trying to scratch that annoying itch of a voice off his ears and only pauses mid bite of his burrito, in the middle of his kitchen, with containers and napkins piling on the island when Natasha heels stops clacking against the marble by the doorway from where she is standing next to Friday.

“I agreed to that meeting like, twenty minutes ago.”  Tony says, purposely pointing out the time because, wow, she is fast. “You must be desperate.”

“That was two hours ago, Tony.” Natasha says, crossing her arms, and lips tugging up into a small smile.

Tony actually blinks at that. _Huh_.

“Has it been two hours, Friday?”

“Yes, boss.” Friday confirms. “Shall I have Dummy bring you a shirt?”

Tony looks down at his bare chest and shrugs as he takes a bite off his burrito. “No. I don’t think Miss Romanov _cares_. You can have a seat, but you can’t have anything.”

Natasha rolls hers eyes in response and joins Tony at the island, propping herself on a stool. Tony doesn’t hear her speak until he is done with his burrito and starting on his croquettes. “What can I do for you, Miss Romanov?”

“I’m not here for business, Tony. You don’t have to worry about anything right now. Whatever happened that day in DC, we’ve taken care of it.”

“The Legion? Damages? You know I’ll take care of it.”

“I know, I know.” Natasha shakes her head. “Tony, I didn’t come here to talk about damages you have caused, or to try to make you own up for the errors of your ways. The board is aware of your generosity and your ongoing support on the Winter Soldier’s rehabilitation. They need you so they’re looking the other way on whatever the hell happened in DC.”

Tony snorts and tosses the empty container towards the growing pile to his left, reaching out for the bag of cheeseburgers. He peels the wrapper open and doesn’t miss the frown or slight quirk of Natasha’s eyebrow as he takes a hungry bite. “Oh? Interesting, that.” Tony says around a mouthful. “So if you’re not here to try to make me pay for damages I caused, _why_ are you here?”

The loud obnoxious gurgling sip from his soda doesn’t make Natasha flinch.

“Selfish reasons.” Natasha answers, giving a bit of a one shouldered shrug. “No business, Tony. Just selfish reasons.”

Tony doesn’t buy it. Not this time.

There’s a reason Natasha _is_ the best out there.

“Nice try.” Tony says, chuckling and wiggling a finger at the Black Widow. “I’m not falling for that. Nope. Who sent you this time? Is it Steve? Because he just left me a _bajillion_ messages and god, that guy can’t take a damn hint – “

“You disrupted wireless and several if not all, electronic devices within a five mile radius, in seconds. You were in a coma for almost two weeks. And when you were confined, there were absolutely no signs of the failing heart and cancer from three years ago. You looked –“

“Like a monster?” Tony finishes the sentence, blinking up at Natasha who frowns. “It’s okay. Say it. I know what I looked like.” Tony shrugs and picks up another burger from the bag as he crumples the empty wrapper in the other. “I _know_ what I am.”

“You’re not a monster, Tony.” Natasha _sighs_ , and Tony almost, just _almost_ buys what she’s selling. Because Natasha looks unguarded, she looks a little worn around the edges, the tucked in blouse crumpled and curls pulled tight in a careless top knot. She has the sleeves of her suit jacked rolled up and folded, when Natasha normally looks impeccable.

“Your opinion of me at this point, honestly, does not matter nor will it make a difference.” The words lack bite because it is the truth and Natasha recognizes it as Tony starts dumping empty containers into the large garbage bag Dummy is holding open for him. “We were good, while we lasted. The team, I mean.”

“Maybe I want the team back.” Natasha admits, and shrugs, her lips softening to an almost sad smile. “Is that so bad, Tony?”

“No, it isn’t. We weren’t perfect, but we worked.” Tony says with a helpless shrug and what feels like a hole in his chest. He doesn’t realize that he’s rubbing the spot where the arc reactor used to sit on until Natasha shoots him an alarmed look, concern and just the slight whisper of panic tugging between her brows. Tony shakes his head and waves her concern away. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Natasha asks, soft, gentle, and almost hesitant. She doesn’t think twice when she reaches out and takes one of Tony’s hand in both of hers, squeezing and pushing warmth in what feels like cold fingers. “Are you, really, Tony?”

Tony looks up at Natasha then, and he knows she can see it, the pale, dying man she had seen all those years ago, lying in a hospital bed, weak, helpless, and trying so _goddamn_ hard, all buried under the new skin that makes Tony look like he’s not a day over thirty five, at most. Tony knows Natasha can see the emptiness in his gaze, much like the chasm that he sometimes forgets is there, in the middle of his chest, because it’s now a part of him, he’s used to it just being there. She can probably see the nightmare that is Ultron’s voice and looming shadow hanging over Tony’s shoulder. She can probably see the countless sleepless nights, the overworked mind and bone deep _fatigue_ that will never, truly, go away.

“Never better.” Tony says, forcing a smile that would have fooled the press, but he knows does nothing to sway Natasha’s instincts and body language reading skills.

The silence that passes between them is lengthy and Tony starts to feel uncomfortable under the hold of that green gaze. He is about so say something, to tell her to leave if she has no other business to conclude here, because _there, you got your meeting that is not two years in the future, final chance, speak or forever hold your fucking peace and stay away from me._

“You are right.” Natasha says and this makes Tony pause, and the sad, wistful smile tugs at her lips. “We were a good team. And all you have to do is ask, Tony. Just ask me to come back and I _will_. I cannot speak for the rest, I cannot speak for Clint or Sam, or Wanda or Steve – but if you ask me, I want you to know, that I will be here.” Tony tries to cut her off, to tell her to stop making promises she can’t keep, but Natasha reaches up to cup his face. “I’m not asking you to trust me, Tony. I know you _can’t._ I’m asking you to consider me as an _option_ , if or when you need it.”

“What if I ask you to kill me?” Tony asks, holding that gaze that looks surprised, eyes widening. “If I beg you to put a bullet, right here.” Tony taps his forehead. “You’re willing to go that far?”

And here, Tony watches as Natasha backs away, watches as her hands slide down to her sides and something comes to her eyes then, makes the pupils dilate and then contract, as something as hard as cold steel rises to the surface.

“If you ask.” Natasha says, and she neither says yes or no.

For some reason, something warm sparks in Tony’s chest and make him look away; he feels like she is lying and the way she looks at him, Tony knows that she’ll never be able to pull the trigger, even when she _thinks_ she _can_. Tony doesn’t push her away though, he doesn’t say words that cut like a blade, doesn’t make threats because Tony knows, Natasha will at least, keep her distance, that she had already proven her ability to respect his wishes to not be involved. Tony knows with his current involvement with rehabilitating the Winter Soldier, he will have to cooperate and liaise with Natasha and her team. He is not a fool to think that he can stay away from them forever.

(You do not want to. In fact, even now, you know that the only reason you are sitting like this, talking to her, is because you _miss her_. You _miss this_. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself, you know that this is what you _need_ that the best parts of you lies in the little pieces that was your team. They may not have made you completely _whole_ , but they filled that chasm in your chest to some degree. Just admit it, already, Tony old boy. You’ve proven your point. You didn’t go _running_ to _them_. They’re the ones coming to you _now_. Enough, already.)

Tony takes the opportunity to talk to Natasha about Bucky’s implants, shows her schematics of it as he continues to polish off the remaining food off the counter. Natasha does not ask him any more questions about his choices, about his illnesses, but Tony is not blind. He knows that Natasha is trying to figure him out from the steady gaze she keeps on him. He knows that she is trying to understand if he is a threat, if he is going to come apart, if he is a danger, if he really knows what he is doing and if this is another Ultron-incident.

(Or she really is just concerned about you.)

And when that topic wraps up, when Natasha seems to express agreement on the theory, Tony sends the schematics over to Helen and gets off the stool, stretching and feeling heavy around his midsection. He can see how his stomach slightly protrudes from the amount of food he had consumed.

“How’s the rest of the team?”

It is the first strike against the solid ice wall, the first strike that chips the hard and gleaming surface, spider veins spreading at the point of impact. Tony almost swears that he sees Natasha perk up just the _tiniest_ bit. Tony asks because he had not had the time to go look into things himself.

“Clint is here. It was easier to sort him out because for the most part, he wasn’t too exposed to the general public. And, you know, it’s hard to convict him and fully go into trial when there is no evidence to present at a hearing.”

Tony cocks both his eyebrows at the _look_ Natasha is giving him. “Oh, there isn’t? Not one?”

“Not one.” Natasha says and gives Tony a knowing smile, canting her head slightly to the direction of Stark Manor’s main gates. “He gave me a ride. He’ll be on active duty soon.”

“What about Sam?”

“That one is a little trickier.” Natasha says, but she does not look concerned. “Again, with no actual evidence or footage of him _anywhere_ , it’s hard to convict him of treason and felony when it’s only, officially, hearsay. In a way.” Natasha gives a slight shrug. “We’re expecting him to be on US soil sometime in January. He’s laying low for the time being.”

Tony gives a small nod, and refrains from weighing in on the topic further. “It’ll be a full house, soon.”

“Yeah.” Natasha nods. “Time away gives people perspective. Maybe what happened was necessary. In the end, neither of us truly left one and the other behind. Some just did a better job than most.”

Tony looks up and sees something soft, something that looks like understanding and maybe silent apology in the depths of those green eyes. And he almost _tells_ her _,_ tells her how fucked up he really is. Tells her how desperate he is to forget because the sad truth is, he’s too much of a coward to blow his own brains out, how even now, to a point, _with the way you look at me, I am not sure if you’re really here or if you’re just a figment of my imagination._

But Tony smiles instead and turns to Dummy. “Go get Daddy a shirt. I’ll walk you out.”

Natasha’s smile this time, is genuine.

When Tony walks Natsha down the lawn and towards the gate to the waiting black sedan parked, he doesn’t think twice when the passenger seat window rolls down and Clint lifts his baseball cap and peers over the edge of his aviators. And it’s like everything in between had not taken place at all, because Clint is cocking an eyebrow at him and one corner of his lip is turning up into a smirk.

“You crazy ass rich people. Don’t tell me you actually got _botox_ , Stark.”

Tony surprises himself when the bark of laughter just rips free from his throat, dorky and just a touch high pitch around the corners. Clint’s words is another blow to the thick ice wall, and maybe it is Tony’s laugh that makes Clint unbuckle his seat belt and reach forward, extending a hand. Maybe it is that gesture that makes Tony forget the words Clint had thrown to his face all those years ago in the raft, and take that hand, feeling the warmth and silent expression of _gratitude_ in those calloused hands wrapping around his.

“I’m not the one who is bald.” Tony points out as Clint releases his hand.

“Hey, I am _rocking_ this look.” Clint adjusts his baseball cap.

“If that helps you sleep at night.” Tony hums, and rolls his eyes when Clint flips him off and places both hands on the wheel.

“You know where to find us, Tony.” Natasha says, as she opens the door and prepares to leave.

Tony gives her a small nod and doesn’t fight it when she leans in and tentatively wraps her arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple. He feels his breath slow down, his heart hammer in his chest and the chasm make itself known again, a reminder of what is long gone and something that he so desperately wants but knows, that it’s better this way. He doesn’t return the embrace, not fully, but his hand comes to rest on Natasha’s side, and for a moment, just a small comforting moment, he feels _okay_.

(Tell them you _need_ them. Tell them, _goddamnit,_ just _tell them!_ Just say _something!_ )

But the door closes and Tony leans back against his heels as the car pulls away and disappears down the road. Tony doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t bother to look up at when Sam is coming back or where is Wanda; they got this, they’ll be fine.

\--

It is four in the afternoon when Tony finds himself standing by the sidewalk of a house that is absolutely foreign to him, a stuffed bear tucked under his arm. Children and parents were waving goodbye at someone past beyond the front door as they leave with party hats and favors. Tony does not have _clue_ as to why he is even standing there like a creep, watching kids leave, in his sunglasses, sneakers, baseball cap, jeans and band t-shirt. He thinks this is a stupid idea, and thinks he should just leave and send the kid a gift card and some elaborate cookie and balloon arrangement.

Tony exhales deeply and decides that this is the dumbest thing on the face of the planet.

He is about to turn and leave, when he hears a man’s voice call from the porch.

“Can I help you, buddy? Yeah, you with the Iron Maiden t-shirt! I’m looking at you!”

The curse that rolls off his tongue is hissed and exhaled at the same time, as Tony raises a hand and a middle-aged man crosses the front porch to eye him from head to toe. Tony pulls his sunglasses off.

“Tony Stark. Cassandra and Lang invited me. Sorry, I’m late.” Tony says and hands the man the bear.

“Oh!” The cogs seems to turn behind the dark eyes and like a switch being flipped, because Tony Stark’s face is famous after all, he is offering a hand and Tony takes it. “Paxton. Dad number two. Come on in, you can give that to Cassie yourself.”

Without a chance at escape, Tony finds himself escorted into a house that is warm, with walls lined with pictures and vintage rugs and garishly cheap wallpaper. There is a sweet smell that lingers in the air and Tony spots a tray on the coffee table that is filled with cookies and cupcakes. There are balloons floating in all areas of the house and pieces of gift wrappers peppering the wooden floors.

And right there, trotting down the hallway, is Cassie. Paxton is waving her over and making the introductions and right there, Tony watches as her eyes widen and the biggest face splitting smile brightens her little face. Tony is frozen on the spot as she throws her little arms around his middle and _hugs_ him.

“Thank you for coming, Mister Stark! Daddy said you might not make it but you did! You’re the best!”

Tony doesn’t realize how he’s looking at Paxton like a deer caught in headlights because he does not have the slightest clue what the _fuck_ he should do with a kid embracing him like this. Paxton gives him a clap on the shoulder and disappears down the hallway, calling out Scott’s name and Tony wants to scream at him to get back here and take his step-daughter off him because _what the fuck_. But Cassie releases him and is looking at the giant bear under his arm and this is where Tony kneels down so that they are at eye level and carefully holds out the bear between himself Cassie, a safety buffer between them because Tony doesn’t think his heart can take another attack like that, he doesn’t think he wants any form of anxiety attack here, now, miles away from the comforts of his home and in front of people he does not even know.

This is the stupidest decision Tony thinks he has ever made in his entire _life_.

“Happy birthday, kid. Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s so big! Thank you Mister Stark! I love it!” Cassie says and picks up the bear that is almost as big as her. “I’m gonna show Mommy and Luis!”

And just like that, she is _gone_ , rushing down the hallway, dragging the bear with her.

Tony _breathes_ then, and reaches up to rub a spot in his chest that feels like heat is spreading somewhere underneath his rib cage. He thinks he is done with his part, that he did not just crush some kid’s dream, that like everything he had been trying to do the past three years, he had reminded the younger generate that your hero will never let you down. Even on your birthday.

(Because you know, oh how you _know_ , how to feel very, _very_ let down.)

“Stark?” Scott sounds _incredulous_ as he steps out from the hallway, tugging the party hat off the top of his head and quickly crossing the distance between them, extending his hand for a handshake. “Oh – oh hey! You made it – wow, you’re really here?”

Tony takes the hand and gives a shrug. “Yeah well, I had business in San Francisco; thought I’d drop by.”

“Oh man.” Scott’s grin is about as wide as Cassie’s earlier, and Tony can see the resemblance. “Hey, uhm, you have time to stay for a bit? I know the party is over, but we still have some hot dogs. You want a beer, or something?”

There is something so _warm_ about the welcome that even when every fiber of Tony’s being is telling him to get the _fuck_ out of there, he can’t help but absently nod and follow Scott into the backyard, where he sinks into one of the garden chairs and graciously accepts the beer. Here, he gets to meet Maggie and Luis, who chats with him for a few minutes and then excuses themselves when Scott comes with a paper-plate with hotdogs. Tony thinks they are delicious after the first bite.

“She seems like a great kid,” Tony says around a mouthful.

“She’s my world.” Scott says and from the corner of Tony’s gaze, he can see on what kind of pedestal Scott has Cassie on; even with three feet between them, Tony is not blind to the adoration that seems so foreign to him. Once upon a time, maybe Maria had looked at him like that, before things hard started to be a little strained and edges had started to fray. “You have no idea how grateful I am. For all that you did.”

“It’s the least I could do.” Tony shrugs.

“That’s the thing.” Scott wiggles a finger in his direction. “ _You didn’t have to._ I would have bounced from one Baskin Robbins or Chipotle or KFC to the other if I had to but – you know, but you came along and you really _didn’t_ have to. You don’t owe _me_ a thing. You don’t know _me_. I’m just the tiny or well, big guy who threw shit at you and your buddies in Leipzig.” Scott looks at him then and there is something that Tony thinks looks a little too much like hero-worship and admiration there, in the depths of the brown eyes. “You know, it’s not just for the job. Natasha has kept me in the loop.”

“It’s just a job, Lang.”

“Suuuuuure~” Scott quirks an eyebrow. “When you spend too much time running away, you realize things. I’m with my little girl. That’s all that matters.”

Tony turns to look at Cassie who is plopped down on the grass, playing pretend tea party with the giant bear he had gotten her. A tall woman joins them and Tony feels his interest pique at how attractive she is.

“Just your little girl, Scott?” She says, and there is mirth and a whisper or amusement in her eyes, her nose wrinkling; the freckles on her cheeks reminds Tony of Pepper.

And it hits him. She reminds him of Pepper. Except this one packs more physical power behind her fists. It’s there in the way she stands, the shift in muscles. Tony doesn’t realize how he’s checking her out from head to toe. And when he does, it hits him like a kick to the gut how he hasn’t done anything like _this_ in a long time.

“Ah, and this is my _other_ girl.” Scott says.

“Hope Van Dyke. We’ve never officially met face to face, but you and your family have history with my father.”

“Ah.” Tony nods, ah yes, he _knows_ exactly, who this is. “I didn’t know that Hank had an unusually attractive daughter. A pleasure, Hope. Tony Stark.” Tony offers a hand from where he is sitting and is rewarded with a very _firm_ handshake and pointed look from Scott. He makes small talk, asking how’s business with Pym Industries, makes an offer like he always does that they should look into collaborating in something in the future. “FYI, I am not Howard. I do believe there’s always a brighter future in the next generation?”

“Don’t worry, Tony.” Hope smiles and winks, dimples hollowing. “We try not to hold grudges around here. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Hope is momentarily distracted by Maggie and excuses herself leaving Scott with Tony all on their own. “So.”

“Yup.”

“Did she punch you in the face when you got back?”

“ _Oh yeah_.”

Tony _laughs_ at that, and Scott joins in with a stifled snort that segues off to an actual laugh as well. “What is it with powerful business women? That is a mystery that I will never understand! Where does the power come from?”

“I know, right?” Scott is covering the wide grin with back of his hand and a half empty beer bottle. “Listen um, if you’re ever around here and you need anything, you know where to find me. Just don’t ask me to steal shit from people.”

Tony looks at Scott then and expects to see the fake niceties he had grown up around, the polite talk that is empty and means nothing, just words being minced to form empty promises that hold no substance.

What he sees instead, is a father who is at home, slouched in a garden chair that is a little titled to one side, chest full of warmth and pride when he looks at his world now dancing in the middle of the garden, his eyes sparkling when he catches a glimpse of the woman who is not afraid to punch him in the face, right there, this man, had his world, had his joys – Tony finds himself feeling envy, something bittersweet coating his tongue that tastes nothing like beer in his hand. He understands that look, he understands how _that_ feels; he had it too, once upon a time ago.

Tony too, had looked at someone, at people, the same way Scott now looks at his family.

“Here’s to you screening _all_ of Cassie’s prom dates.” Tony says, and the smile that stretches on his lips, for _once_ , feels real.

The sharp echoing clink of their beer bottles and Scott’s very hearty laugh is all the acquiesce Tony needs.

\--

Standing in the middle of a socialite gathering, Bucky thinks that this is the stupidest place to be and that there is no reason for him to be present in, of all things, a charity function. He had wanted to express his dislike when he had been told that in order to gradually facilitate positive PR, the Winter Soldier and former Avengers are to start making public appearances that should appease the general populace, particularly those who had been continuously providing generous amounts of donations.

Keep a sharp guard on, they had said.

You are there to protect everyone, they had said.

Cock and bull, Bucky had wanted to say.

Because worrying that someone would try to do anything stupid like attack the event is unwarranted. Not when there are several well-known Superheroes and mutants walking around in evening gowns and tuxedos. He had just walked away from Captain Britain, Hank McCoy and Charles Xavier. Susan Storm and Reed Richards had just made their entrance that had caused an eruption of a fresh bout of paparazzi camera flashes. Of course, the flashed doubled when Benjamin Grimm had showed up in a tailored blazer and slacks, blocking the entire entrance with his frame. The chatter and teetering of the crowd tripled when Johnny had made his entrance, one hand on fire and waving, and an attractive woman in each arm.

It’s ridiculous.

Bucky thinks it’s like having all the peacocks in the yard fanning out their tails and smiling at the camera.

Every single one of them.

But underneath all the glam and red carpet and flashing cameras and hungry reporters covering the event, Bucky knows that the entire gala is a message to show what a strong united front everyone had, that people, even superheroes, are willing to put aside their differences and sip champagne that is far too sweet and nibble on hors d’ouevre a couple of days before Christmas. That these very same people are willing to stand up for something greater.

That the earth is not afraid, you watch who you are messing with.

Which is all great for Bucky, he’s all for a united front and counter terrorism and protecting the innocent and defenseless general public – he just can’t seem to understand why he had to do it in a tux and pretend to be a socialite, when he is anything but.

He tugs at his tie for the tenth time that evening.

“Do you know how long we have to linger?” Bucky asks Vision, who simply turns to look at him with an unreadable expression.

“I am under strict instructions by Miss Romanov that we are to remain here, on alert. Unfortunately, she did not disclose a time.”

That is about as far as Bucky attempts to use his tongue. He pretends to not see the men and women, civilians really, look him up down and converse behind their palms. He pretends to study the ice sculpture by the bar, sipping champagne that makes him flinch internally as he and Vision stand out like a sore thumb in a room full of people. Bucky remembers a few things of his past now, pockets of memory where the fog had lifted. Clarity is a blessing, especially now when he can compare the taste of good ale as opposed to the foofy shit with a  floating raspberry at the bottom that he is trying not to make a face at.

The ear piece in his ear crackles and Natasha’s voice cuts through, clear and sharp. “Look alert boys, smile. Keep moving.”

And just like that, Bucky sets his half empty champagne glass on a tray as the server walks by, adjust his suit and gives his sleeves one final tug and falls into step with Vision. They walk around the room, nodding at people who recognize them, shaking hands with those who had been bold enough to approach them, and after a full clockwise rotation of the room, Bucky picks a vantage point at the far left of the room, where there is a marvelous display of abstract marble sculptures, where Rhodey and Steve decides to join them.

There is a brief exchange of nods before they stand there, at ready, keeping surveillance of the room. Bucky and Steve exchange a brief glance as they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“It’s a nice place.” Steve says.

“Fancy.” Bucky chimes.

“I’m never going to get used to this.” Rhodey adds, with a bit of a sigh as he adjusts the sleeve of his dress uniform.

“You know Vision, you look pretty good in a suit.” Steve says, with a dimple hollowing on one cheek.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers. It was a most harrowing experience finding the right fit. Miss Potts is very conscious of minor details.”

“She has years under her belt dressing Tony.” Natasha’s voice rings and Bucky notices how Steve stiffens in his stance, the change in posture minute.

“Is he coming?” Steve asks, casual, easy, like the ball of _something_ hadn’t been wedged in the middle of his throat. Bucky knows better; he had always known. Steve is _nervous_.

When no one answers, Rhodey steps in. “He neither confirmed nor declined.”

They start moving around once more, pausing when some of the foreign and domestic Generals stop them and shake hands, their wives teetering and one even daring to hold her hand up to Steve, who takes it in stride and places a kiss on the back of her palm like a cultured gentleman. Some of the shier and younger attendees approach them and ask for selfies, some start asking questions like one would at a celebrity meet and greet: what are your hobbies, what is your favorite restaurant, what do you like to do over the weekends. Bucky is grateful that Steve handles most of the questions, because most of them are there for Steve and sometimes, Rhodey, too with the rare oddity of Vision getting some awkward attention that leaves him blinking and unsure how to respond.

The chatter quiets down when T’challa appears on stage and gives a short speech and thanks for the growing generous contributions and continuous support the attendees had been providing the Accords throughout the years. It doesn’t take more than three minutes tops, and when T’challa asks them to enjoy themselves and join him for dinner in a little while, the jazz band start to play a catchy tune of Jingle Bells and the chatter swallows up the hall.

It is a few minutes before dinner is to be served that the room erupts into excited chatter and the camera flash nearly _fills_ the room. Bucky had been perched at the bar, seemingly casual and relaxed to the unknowing eye whilst remaining alert, listening to Steve narrate a story of one of the kids on campus, when he catches sight of who had walked in, fashionably late through the door.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Rhodey says, with a disbelieving smile of relief on his face.

Tony Stark smiles and nods, shakes hands with a few people as he crosses the threshold and mingles into the party like had had not just caused a stir. Natasha is there to greet him and Pepper cheek to cheek; the power couple, they had once been called and with reason. Bucky knows he is _staring_ at how Pepper and Tony mitigate the media, answers questions with sharp smiles that can either be warm or full of bite, depending on what is thrown their way. Pepper, who is a flowing green dress with her hair arranged at the top of her head, and Tony in an all black ensemble, save for the gleam of silver on his cufflinks and watch and the sharp red soles of Louboutin dress shoes.

It is like a picture off a magazine.

They are _perfect_ together.

(Yet not.)

And the media _knows_ it.

“How does he do it?” Bucky finds himself asking, because Tony and Pepper part ways as they network, fielding questions left and right, and from where he stands, Bucky can read the bullshit excuses Tony’s lips are spewing out in response to the where have you beens, we don’t see yous, and I think you’re ignoring me Starks.

“Decades worth of practice.” Rhodey answers. “Believe me, even I don’t know how he does it.”

Bucky knows he is not the only one following Tony with his gaze. He knows that Steve’s attention is drawn to Tony like a moth to a flame, watching as Tony moves from person to person and finally lingering and conversing with Charles Xavier. Even with Tony standing halfway across the room, Bucky can still read his lips, he can still make out the words the from where he stands, can read Tony’s answer with numbers and progress of the school that he had modelled loosely on Xavier’s School for the Gifted Youngsters. But the conversation takes a grim turn, when Bucky watches Tony’s face freeze in a smile that is tight around the lines, when Tony swallows past the lump that must feel like the size of a tennis ball wedged somewhere in his throat. He cannot hear the question, and for a moment, he does not even _read_ the question because his direct field of vision is suddenly obscured by an excited guest.

“I’ll manage.” Tony says, probably no more than a murmur. And here, Charles turns his jaw just an inch to the right, obscuring the sight of his response to those who are paying attention. Then Tony is shaking his hands, clasping his other hand over Charles’ knuckles in a gesture of gratefulness, before they separate.

If Bucky had been a lesser man, he would have flinched at the unreadable gaze Charles directs right _at_ him.

If _Steve_ had been a lesser man, he too would have flinched. But Steve is not Bucky, because Steve blinks and looks away, like he had been invading a conversation he should not have been listening in on. Bucky, however, meets the Professor’s gaze head on, unflinching, unblinking and just for the briefest moment, he thinks he might have seeing things when the corner of Charles’ lip quirks up just the _tiniest_ bit. The moment comes and goes, because Charles looks away when someone approaches him and Bucky suddenly finds himself staring at a silk black tie.

“Well, look at you.” Tony says, lips pulled back in a smile that does _not_ reach his eyes. “Looking all sharp and _nice_ , breaking hearts on your first gala since the escape from the gallows~ You clean up quite well, Sergeant Barnes. Loving the man-bun.”

Bucky finds himself blinking and taking the offered hand in a handshake. It’s all for show, he knows, because there are cameras _everywhere_ , but Tony’s hand is clammy in his, and there is a tremble in the grip that should not be there. It comes and goes, much like everything else that evening and Bucky watches as Tony shakes hand with Steve, Vision and Rhodey. Bucky doesn’t miss the quirk of Rhodey’s eyebrow at him, nor does he miss the quizzical expression on Steve’s face.

“Go easy on Barnes, Tones. Technically, this is your first gala in a while, too.”

“Oh! Well, then it looks like you and I have more in common than you think.”

It is the _wink_ that takes Bucky by surprise. It is the casualness of it, how Tony just _flings_ it out in the open that leaves him standing there like someone had thrusted a box of full of live kittens into his arms. It is a complete one-eighty from how Tony had been with him in Nevada, and for a moment, Bucky thinks it’s just some sort of media ploy, especially when they have eyes and ears everywhere.

“You don’t look too shabby yourself.” He finds himself saying, because it’s the truth. Tony now is completely different from the Tony he remembers in Nevada, dressed down all those years ago, with the loosened tie and a few buttons popped free.

(You still remember the look of horror in his face when you had fired the gun, right there, into his fist and had felt his arm jerk with the force of the bullet.)

Tony doesn’t reply, but the smirk, at least this time around, had felt genuine. Tony had eyed him up and down once before turning to Rhodey to speak. Bucky catches Steve’s questioning gaze, confusion in his blue eyes and for a moment, Bucky remembers a life from almost a century ago, crisp and vivid, when the most beautiful women in town had looked past a small and skinny Steve, gaze cutting above his golden head and smiles radiating in his general direction. Except in those days, Steve had not been interested in those girls, had not even batted an eyelash.

Now, Steve is left looking after Tony with his lips sealed shut.

And Bucky doesn’t get a chance to linger much on it, parted lips sealing shut as well when a tall blonde woman joins in the conversation, back straight, chin up, the very definition of a trained military woman, dressed in a halter gray dress and a silver clutch between red painted nails.

“Colonel Rhodes, gentlemen, mister Stark, please allow me to introduce myself. Carol Danvers, United States Air Force.” Her handshake is firm, and Bucky watches as she bamboozles and shatters whatever ice wall that Tony had erected between himself and Steve. “Mister Stark, we’ve never met in person, but on behalf of my men, and the entire military, please allow me to say that your work is absolutely unparalleled. Your current design on defense tactical gear is most impressive.” Tony chuckles, but doesn’t get a chance to say anything because Carol ploughs on. “I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation gentleman, but if it’s all the same to you, Colonel Rhodes, I would like to request that you join me for a drink. At the bar.”

“He accepts.” Tony answers, before Rhodey can even try to get out of it. “Vision’s got this, Cap and Barnes will behave, right boys?”

The pointed _look_ Tony gives only makes the peanut gallery that they are nod in unison.

And just like that Carol is laughing, and taking Rhodey’s offered arm as they walk a few feet towards the bar to ensue in conversation, even as Rhodey throws them a very pointed look.

“If it’s all the same to you, Tony, I would like to request _you_ join _me_ for a drink. And a conversation.” Steve suddenly says, stiff around the shoulders and Adam’s apple bobbing.

“He graciously accepts.” Vision responds and Bucky can feel his lip twitch up in amusement at the look that crosses Tony’s face. “Scotch. On the rocks. Am I right, Mister Stark?”

“Sorry, Cap, but that is a terrible pick up line –“

“I’m old fashioned.” Steve says, getting the words out before Tony can even try to weasel out of a conversation that, if Bucky is being honest with himself, _needs_ to happen.

“Can this at least wait till _after_ dinner?”

“I am not opposed to sitting at a private table with you; I am sure I will enjoy your company. Always have; I am also sure if Tony Stark and Steve Rogers asks for a last minute table for two, we can be accommodated.”

Bucky had to hand it to Steve; he doesn’t have a memory him of being this outright _insistent_ on _anything_. Steve may be the definition of stubborn but he is _always_ considerate of others, always polite to not step on people’s toes, always about proper decorum, and considerate of others’ feelings.

(Or this could be just desperation. Can you blame him when Tony has been giving him the ice cold shoulder? When you know, despite everything, Steve cares about Tony. He _must_ care about Tony to be even doing any of _this_ in the middle of a public setting that is so unlike him. Because you know that Steve is _desperate_.)

“Get me my drink. I’ll meet you at the terrace.” Tony tips his chin towards the general direction of ceiling-high glass doors and Steve doesn’t wait a beat. He excuses himself and makes a beeline for the bar, leaving Tony to give Vision his most _unimpressed_ look. “Thanks, Buddy. Always.”

“Always a pleasure, mister Stark.” Vision says, lips quirking up despite the thick sarcasm dripping from Tony’s words.

“Hey,” Bucky says, reaching out to grasp Tony by the elbow, stopping him from heading to the terrace. The flinch and slight tremble under the expensive fabric is not lost to Bucky, but he does not let go. And for a moment, whatever Bucky wants to say is lost at the tip of his tongue when Tony _looks_ at him with something he cannot quite comprehend. He can see the gold flecks in the depths of eyes that if possible, are more tired than from what he remembers.

“I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry. I won’t stand up on your BFF’s request.”

“No, it’s not that. I don’t blame you if you still want to stand him up, that’s your decision. I’m glad you want to talk to him. You both _should_ but I uh…” Bucky feels Tony relax in his grip and when he knows that Tony isn’t going to bolt, his hold drops. “I dunno if I’ll get to see you again after this but uhm, I guess I just wanna say thanks. For _everything_. And uh, you know, if you’re still interested in feedback on the arm and stuff, I can put together reports for you, or something...”

“Or something.” Tony parrots.

“Yeah. You’re always going on about science. This is science too, right?” Bucky finds himself standing a little straighter, bracing himself to be brushed off.

But Tony is giving him his full attention now, facing him completely. He doesn’t respond immediately, but he ducks his head for a second, clearing his throat. Bucky feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and when he pulls it out, he sees Tony Stark’s contact details on the screen.

“An inventor _always_ appreciates feedback, Sergeant Barnes.”

“James.” Bucky corrects him.

“Beg your pardon?” Tony blinks.

“I’m not a sergeant anymore. You should just call me by my name. I’m keeping Winter Soldier, by the way. I dunno if you know. I signed last week.” Bucky shrugs. The surprise makes Tony’s face look _young_ and Bucky feels his lips crack a smile. “I’m also scheduled for surgery two weeks from now. They’re going to plant that device you designed.”

“Ahh. Yes. Still no name for it, by the way. But I think I’m going to stick to ADPJB. “

Bucky blinks. “ADPJB?”

“Auditory Device to Protect James Barnes.” Bucky doesn’t need to look into a mirror to know how red his face must look like. Clint had not been kidding. Tony’s talent to say the most embarrassing things is unparalleled. “Nervous? Excited?”

“A little bit. I’ll get to choose my missions once they clear me fit for duty.” Bucky sucks in a deep breath. “It’s nice.” Bucky watches as Tony hums and swallows around whatever it is that had formed in his throat. He watches as Tony’s gaze flicks over to Vision, whose expression in return betrays nothing.

“Call me, James.” Tony says and takes a step back as his hands go into his pockets. “I’m looking forward to hear about the arm and ADPJB’s performance. You know where to find me, if anything.”

“I appreciate it.” James said, and he had never meant anything so much, had never felt sincerity so warm at the pit of his stomach than he had in that very moment.

“I do hope you enjoy the rest of the evening, mister Stark.” Vision says.

“You and I are going to have many, many words together, buddy. That’s a promise.” Tony says as he points at Vision in a mocking I-am-watching-you gesture before he turns to head towards the terrace.

“Mister Barnes.” Vision says, a few solid minutes after Tony had long gone and Steve, had made his way from the bar to the terrace. Bucky had caught sight of Steve tugging his ear piece out and shoving it into his pocket. “If it’s all the same to you, I would like to request you join by the terrace doors.”

“I’m not interested.” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh in me, yes, I am aware. Neither am I interested in you, in that regard. But you cannot deny interest in Mister Stark.” Bucky looks up with eyes widening just a touch. A beat passes before Vision adds, “And Captain Rogers of course. Understand that it is purely for safety concerns.” 

“You can just say you wanna eavesdrop, you know?” Bucky offers, cocking an eyebrow.

“That is considered inappropriate behavior. I am merely asking you to join me by the doors for security purposes.”

“You’re a piece of work.” Bucky says and finds himself shaking his head in amusement as he follows Vision towards the terrace doors.

They pick a spot a little towards the side, close enough to the doors and away enough from the noise that Bucky does not have to strain _too_ hard to hear the words that are being exchanged between Tony and Steve. And for a moment, Bucky thinks this is all wrong, with the both of them standing there and listening to small talk, progress in school grounds, training plans, most of the conversation probably going over Tony’s head. It isn’t until Steve tells Tony that they’re asking him to think of possible team members that Tony finally, truly talks. Bucky can hear the scuff of Tony’s shoes from where he shifts posture.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, in the long term, I would like for the team to be whole again. And that includes you, Tony.” Steve says, voice soft, words gentle that the words feels like an exposed nerve.

And Tony doesn’t hold back when he comes down on it full power, right dead in the center. “I’m not interested. I thought I made that very clear.”

“Then why cover for all of us? Why help Bucky, why do everything to make sure people come home, why help at all if you’re not interested? If you don’t care –“

“Because _I_ do not turn my back on my teammates. Because _I_ , despite all that’s been said and done, _have fulfilled my duty_ as an Avenger, as a friend, as a teammate and as a citizen to this country. I did not abandon my post, despite what _you_ think.”

“Gosh, Tony, I’m not trying to accuse you here –“

“Then _what_ are you doing Steve?” Tony asks. “It’s never going to be the same. It’s absolutely childish to think it will ever be the same, why are you _even asking_?”

“Because I want to _hope!_ ” Steve’s voice cuts through like a sharp knife, hot and searing, the tenor of his tone dropping to almost a sharp growl. “Because it’s my fault, and goddamnit, I get it. _I’m trying here, Tony._ I really _am_. I don’t know how else to reach you, I don’t know how to talk to you, you’re so – you’re just so far away! But goddamnit, _I’m trying_ and _I’m not going to stop_.”

The sound of glass shattering punctuates those words.

Bucky doesn’t realize how he’s holding his breath; he doesn’t recognize Steve’s voice. And Bucky knows that Steve is trying, he knows how he’s been trying to come around the choices he has made, realizing the mistakes that had been made in good faith and the belief in freedom that, as time had gone by, has only proven to be outdated. Because the world is no longer black and white and it is not that simple. Because wars are first fought with words and schemes and games and under the table than it is on the battlefield with fists and courage. Gone are those days when wars had been fought with honor.

And Steve had been left behind. And maybe he had been wrong, maybe not all his choices had been the right one, but he had to be given effort for _trying_. He had been dancing to their tune for the past few months, had been going against the very grain of his being for the sake of correcting his mistakes that had a political impact so huge that it can never be about one person anymore, that everything Steve stands for extends well beyond his dedication and love for Bucky and his teammates.

It’s beyond everyone.

(And Tony had known all along.)

“Well.” Tony says softly. “You need to stop.”

“Was it true?” Steve suddenly asks.

“What was?”

“That you were at your happiest when you were with me.” Bucky blinks at the question and turns to look at Vision who simply ducks his head and shakes it, like he is disapproving. “Was that a lie from Rhodey?”

“Rhodey likes to exaggerate.” Tony says, dismissively, but not with enough bite; he sounds defeated.

“ _But_ _were you_?” Steve asks, voice _grinding_ and _pressing_ and so, so painfully desperate.

“It wouldn’t change a thing; at this point, what does it matter?” Tony asks, neither confirming, nor denying the statement.

“ _Everything_.” The silence stretches and Tony doesn’t answer. And for a moment Bucky thinks that’s it, it’s over. The conversation has happened and there’s no salvaging anything that’s left of the friendship or team bond. “I know you think that my words back then, my letter, is a piss poor excuse of an apology. I know you think I won’t do jack when I say that I’m here for you when you need me. And I understand and I’m sorry. For _everything_ that I have done to hurt you. For everything that I have done that may have pushed you towards choices you may have avoided. But I _am here for you_. And I will prove it. I’ll wait, for as long as I have to. I’m not asking you to believe me, or forgive me. Not at all. I’ve learned that I can compromise on a lot of things, if it’s worth it. I’ve learned to. But I will not compromise on _you_ , Tony. And that is something I should have never done in the first place.”

“You’re wasting your time.” Tony says, a piss poor attempt at trying to be dry and sarcastic, because the tremble in his words betray his emotions.

Bucky can feel it from yards away; the rawness in Tony’s voice.

“Maybe.” Steve says and Bucky can hear the immovable promise in his tone when he says, “But I’ve always been willing to wait for the right person and the right time. I’d wait a lifetime if necessary.”

Bucky stands there with steel tightening around every inch of his spinal column, holding his breath as he waits for Tony to respond to something like _that_ , when it sounds _like that_ , when Steve practically is handing Tony his life, his dedication. It’s no longer just words for Steve at this point; this is Steve _grovelling_. Bucky cannot believe it, cannot even comprehend that Tony can bring Steve down to his knees this way.

(Makes you wonder if he’s ever done the same for anyone else other than you, doesn’t it?)

But Tony doesn’t answer that statement and is instead walking away with a softly murmured Merry Christmas and Bucky doesn’t think twice in grabbing Vision away from where they are standing, turning around and practically man handling the sentient lest they get caught eavesdropping. And when they are a few feet away, from the reflection of the champagne glass in his hand, Bucky watches as Tony steps back into the room, sucking a few deep breaths and a hand coming to rest against his chest. And this is a Tony that is new to Bucky. This is a Tony who looks like he does not have a foothold because Steve had just yanked it out from under him. This is a Tony who looks lost, unsure of his surroundings, _weak_. The flaws show now, every crack, every nick in the armor to expose the human being hidden under all the iron. And it’s almost magnificent, to a degree, because Tony always acts like he’s put together. Like he knows what he’s doing. Like he has actually calculated the steps ahead ten times over. Tony’s mind functions on a whole different level than regular men that it had warranted him being on the high wanted lists in Hydra; Bucky remembers.

And yet, here he is, looking nothing like what had put him on that list to begin with.

Bucky watches as the breaths starts to get a touch rapid and how Tony’s fists balls tightly against his sides as and his jaw locks with the effort to keep his shit together, because he’s still to afraid to be even close to Steve Rogers, because Bucky knows that _Tony knows_ when Steve tells you he’ll wait for you, by the gods, he will goddamn wait for you till the world ends.

And like a veil being lifted, when Pepper’s voice echoes from the bottom of the steps, the expression is gone with a slow exhale and Tony _smiles_ , a little shaky around the edges as he turns to head down the steps and tells Pepper he’s fine and that they should go have dinner, all the while trying to convince Pepper to dance with him for old time’s sake.

Bucky looks up to find Vision looking quite solemn, eerie in his silence.

“I’m gonna go check up on Steve if that’s okay with you.”

“I understand. I’ll be by the door.” Vision says and Bucky nods to head into the terrace where he finds Steve’s fists against the marble railing.

Bucky doesn’t have to say anything. Steve does it on his own.

“I feel responsible.” Steve punctuates the statement with a shaky inhale. “No, I _am_ responsible.”

“At least you talked. That’s a step forward considering… well, you know.” Bucky offers.

“I guess.” Steve says and when he looks at Bucky, he sees it in his eyes how Steve too, feels like that there is no foothold underneath his feet. “I’m scared, Buck. I’m scared of _something_ and I am not sure what that is.”

“Steve, maybe you need to come into terms with the fact that maybe Tony really doesn’t want you around anymore.” Bucky says and he watches as Steve’s face crumples.

“I know…” Steve turns to look away. “I’m trying…”

Bucky reaches up and carefully places a hand on Steve’s shoulder gently squeezing. “The both of you are worse than a soap opera on TV.”

Steve huffs out a laugh.

But Bucky can hear the hollowness in the sound of it.

\--

Tony stumbles into the manor feeling like the world had collapsed around him, exhausted, sleepy, and ready to just shut down for the next decade or so. He doesn’t think twice as he kicks his shoes off and peels his jacket, leaving a trail from the door all the way down the hall as he putters towards the kitchen.

He even walks right past Friday when she materializes.

“Boss, uhm, before you go into the kitchen –“

“Not now, Friday. Can you run the bath please, good god, please tell me we have something to drink and –“

“Boss! I know you have set protocols for certain individuals and I’m trying to tell you that –“ Tony is dropping his tie on the kitchen floor when he catches sight of the haggard looking man, with a thick scruff on his cheek, dressed in jeans, sandals and a jacket fitting more on a hippie than a brilliant doctor and scientist. Tony finds himself suddenly unable to _breathe_. “ – that Dr. Banner is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“Hey, Tony.” Bruce says, lifting up a hand in a hesitant greeting and eyes darting left and right. There is a bottle of water and a beaten baseball cap on the counter, half empty and Bruce is slouching from where he is seated on the kitchen stool. “I wasn’t going to intrude at first, but Friday said it was okay and that you had me cleared to come by anytime, so…”

And the breath that leaves Tony then feels too much like bittersweet relief, painful and pinching somewhere deep in his chest because after everything that has been going on, Tony had believed that Bruce would never come to him, that Bruce had probably disagreed with all his choices, especially when Ross had been concerned. Not that Tony had blamed him, he had known what he had been getting into.

Seeing Bruce now, in his house, sitting there like he’s just waiting for a bus or something, Tony feels his knees go weak.

That breath too, feels too much like _joy_.

“Tony?” Bruce is on his face. “Hey, hey, you don’t look too good, are you all right?”

Tony _breathes_ out a chuckle, as he makes his way to the counter and reaches across it to clasp Bruce by the shoulders.

(And you’re wondering now if he’s real or not, because touch does nothing anymore, they all _feel_ real. Howards hands had felt real on your head. Maria’s lips on your cheek had felt warm and soft. Steve’s lips on yours had felt far, far _too_ real and so does Ultron’s cold and icy hands. So even if Bruce feels real under yours, what guarantee do you have that he’s really here? But you don’t care, do you? Because Bruce is new and after everything, you’re probably just desperate for someone else with an actual background in medicine to tell you what the hell is wrong with you and how can you fix it.)

“I’m so glad to see, buddy. I think I need your help. I think I fucked up somewhere." Tony says, and something in his voice cracks.

Bruce’s smile is sad.

But Tony doesn’t care.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, not all is easily forgiven. But what are you gonna do? There is no going backward, only forward. For everyone.
> 
> I feel this chapter is a filler. I also feel that after writing far too many emotional scenes, this one fell a little short. I had known in the planning phase that at some point, I will end up with a chapter that feels a little lacking, and well, here it is. I wanna say I’m pleased with it, but I’d be lying if I said that I was. I’m on the fence.
> 
> So. This story is approaching its end. Depending on how the next chapter turns out, it may be the end, or there may be two more to follow.
> 
> But while REBIRTH closes, something else which is a continuation of it will follow. That one, I can safely say will focus less on the MCU timeline (because I’ve been cramming several things to fit a timeline) and also completely divert from it since, lol, we don’t know what’s going on post Civil War (not counting Doctor Strange yet, which hey, ain’t released yet, even though I’ve seen the animation). I have also NOT watched nor followed AGENTS OF SHIELD, so that timeline won’t be in the picture at all (though there is one element in it that I am interested in, hmmm).
> 
> Ugh I rambled.
> 
> Bottom line, REBIRTH IS ENDING. I mean, god, it needs to fucking end, jesus, this thing is a MONSTER.
> 
> But stay tuned for another story that will follow it >:D
> 
> As always, if you’ve reached this far, THANK YOU FOR KEEPING UP WITH THIS EMOTIONAL MESS OF A STORY. I TRULY APPRECIATE ALL YOUR FEEDBACK, YOUR FANNING, RANTS, REVIEWS, KUDOS – THANK YOU <3 <3


	9. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am my own BETA. I have re-read this several times and still am. I may have missed a few things here and there.
> 
> This is quite a short chapter compared to the others but, well, here we go!

**Suggested reading music:[X Ambassador -  Unsteady (this particular version)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtXZCSzFloM)**

“Real magic can never be made by offering someone else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”   
― **Peter S Beagle - The Last Unicorn**

  
Tony thinks he is imagining that flash of green within the depths of Bruce’s eyes. He does not know who the big guy might be feeling queasy about: the fact that Tony had sat there, from dawn till a little before noon talking to Bruce about what he had subjected himself to as a countermeasure to cancer and heart disease or if it was the side effects of what he had subjected himself to and how he was, more or less, going insane.

Tony can see that Bruce had come up with theories. Tony can see that Bruce is reaching past his medical expertise to figure out how to even tackle something he cannot even begin to comprehend. After listening to account after account, the dreams, the nightmares, the thoughts, the theories, projections and demonstrations of how Extremis works, the goal of its development and Tony’s own schematics of before and after Extremis, Bruce had remained unmoving save for the reflexive blinking. Bruce had not said a word when looking through his old medical reports. He had not said a word _throughout_ , to be fair. Tony had to sit there, waiting as Bruce minimizes the projections around him and just looks at him with an expression that Tony doesn’t even know what to make of.

“We’ll need to run some tests.” Those are the only words Bruce says on the subject.

That had been that.

It is not lost on Tony how he had just dropped a bomb on Bruce’s lap and only when he had completed the necessary tests, on one cloudy afternoon, when he finds Bruce sitting in the garden drinking a cup of tea, does he realize just what he had entrusted Bruce with. How he had not even asked how he had been, where he had been, or even the basic, hey, Christmas eve is around the corner, what do you want to do? Tony thinks that until the results of his tests and MRIs and CAT scans come in, they should not talk about his problems.

So he sits next to Bruce, a cup of coffee in hand, and asks, “You plan on meeting anyone for Christmas? I had no plans to host but, I can make an exception for you.”

“No.” Bruce says, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “No parties, Tony.”

“Or Natasha?”

“Yeah… considering how I just left in the middle of a rescue effort, how do you think I should go about that? Hey, how’s it going?” Bruce shakes his head and makes a soft self-depreciating noise somewhere in the back of his throat.

“Where _have_ you been?” Tony asks and when Bruce _looks_ at him, he holds up a hand. “I don’t know how aware you’ve been of what’s been going on here –“

“Your pissing contest with Steve?” Bruce says dryly and it makes Tony frown. “What, you’re going to actually pretend that it wasn’t a pissing contest?”

“Super Soldier or not, I had a good reach. You gotta give me some credit.”

“I was aware, Tony. Being away from everything was probably saving grace. I’m not sure how having the big guy around that kind of hostility would have been smart.”

Tony understands a ‘shut up’ when he hears one and for his own self-preservation, he cans the topic of the team coming apart and the Accords all together. “You’re not answering my question. Where were you? I mean, where is this magical hush-hush place and do they have properties for sale.”

That gets a chuckle out of Bruce. “You’re not going to believe me.”

 _That_ gets a _laugh_ out of Tony. “Nothing can surprise me anymore.”

“Asgard, for one.” Bruce answers and the silence that fills the space between them makes Bruce grin.

“You’re right. I don’t believe you.” Tony says, unsure how he can even begin to wrap his head around the fact that while the whole earth had been pretty much engaging in a street war, the big green angry giant had been off gallivanting in the fields of the Norse Gods. And Tony’s expression must have just betrayed his thoughts because Bruce is chuckling into his cup and trying to suppress his growing grin even more. “Well don’t be stingy on the details, doctor. You and I are far too close to each other for that.”

“Well, I can’t say much. You’re going to have to take my word for it. But in the long run, and I’m talking about the great haul down the future, Tony, this unified front that the Accords is trying to achieve? Earth is going to need it. On all _ends_. I’m not just talking about super strength, or super soldiers, because you and I, and the others like Steve with the exception of Wanda, we fight on a physical level. The threats out there…” Bruce shakes his head.

“Don’t tell me there are rabid unicorns and angry Carebears out there floating around in the galaxy.” Tony takes one look at Bruce’s face and for a moment, he wonders if his sarcastic joke had actually hit the spot. That it is in fact, the truth. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Bruce looks into his cup, rotating it and swirling the leaves within. “I’ve been gone a long time. I’ve seen – no, I’ve been a part of things far greater than my own understanding. Greater than yours, too, probably. Loki, for example, had been the tip of the iceberg. I’m not just talking about aliens coming down from a portal whose other end are light years away. Something like that can be explained with theories of quantum gravity, special and general relativity – you know this. That’s still science. No, I’m talking about reality bending here. I’m talking about the supernatural. Inception doesn’t even begin to _describe_ it. There are powers beyond _our_ comprehension, because like it or not, earth, compared to many other worlds, is still very young _. We_ are _children_ compared to most races. Even now as we speak, on our plane of existence, there is a fight going on that we are not a part of. It has been going on for a while.”

Tony tries to digest this information; he tries to wrap his head around a reality that exists within a reality. He tries to think of who or what are those people fighting the war _now_ that he cannot even _see_. And Tony knows Extremis’ reach is incredibly _broad_. To think that there might be something out there that he is not aware of, that is so hidden, that is so unknown than even SHIELD’s own dirty laundry, it baffles Tony as much as it sparks _something_ in him that feels like curiosity of the unknown.

And that is a feeling has not felt in _decades_.

(Don’t you suddenly feel incredibly _young_ right now?)

“Soooooo, why _now_ , Bruce?” Tony asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong here. But you’ve been gone for almost three years. If this fight, whatever it is, has been going on for a while, why come now and not earlier?” And Tony pushes reassurance and defense into his words. “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way but, you know, if you didn’t want to be a part of any of this and I know you don’t, I know you would have never signed the Accords if it had meant Ross having any say in your actions and whereabouts – and I’m glad you’re around. I really am but… come on, Bruce, you cannot tell me this is just a social call and you miss being _here_. So why _now?_ ” And then the shoe drops. “Is _there_ something we _should_ be prepared for?”

Bruce is quiet and there seems to be hesitation in his gaze as his finger twitches briefly and his shoulders slump. “I’m not sure.”

“Uhhh…” Tony blinks, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

“Maybe I didn’t word it right. No, there isn’t an imminent threat at the moment. Things, whatever and wherever, are being contained the way they should be contained or something, honestly magic baffles me, I still don’t _get it_.” Tony watches as Bruce sets his cup aside on the bench and brings his hands up to his cheeks, rubbing it furiously and exhaling sharply from between his fingers. “There is no threat, not a sure one. And if there is one, we will be warned; Thor has assured me of that. But honestly, I feel like looking over my shoulder most of the time and expecting something to hit me. I _know_ there’s no threat, not immediately, but I also know that not being _prepared_ is a luxury we can no longer afford. Something in me is telling me that –“

Tony feels his chest expanding with a hollowness that feels too familiar. It is the same hollowness he had felt when he had gazed into an abyss in the sky peppered by the stars and bodies upon bodies of people had piled right before his feet. He can feel his heart start to race and with that, his hands start to get clammy. He is gripping his coffee mug too tight, he is staring at the stretch of green the manor’s garden and seeing and watching it fold with the weight of blood that reflects like black oil. And he can smell it, and taste it, that coppery heat at the back of his throat as he kneels on the ground and presses a hand against a silver star that has no heartbeat underneath it.

“That what?” Tony breathes out, words misting into the winter air.

“Something’s coming and the Avengers are _not_ going to be _enough_.” Bruce says and shakes his head. “I have no basis for it, I have no proof, I have _nothing_ to prove it other than a gut feeling. Honestly, Tony, who would listen to a monster who goes out of control when angry?”

Tony meets Bruce’s eyes and unflinchingly answers without hesitation, “I would.”

Bruce’s smile is small and just a touch shy around the corners. “I’m not the only one who _feels_ this, by the way. Thor has gone to where Wanda is. He thinks it’s best, until ‘earth’s politics realigns itself’ that Wanda stays in Asgard where she can fully master and train her abilities in a safer environment. Thor was convinced that her stance in the Accords had been shaky.”

Tony blinks several times. “Huh. Well that solves _that_. Everyone is coming home and Wanda had been the last piece to the puzzle.”

“You’re not going to ask me where she is, how she’s going to get there…?” Bruce asks.

“It’s her decision.” Tony shrugs as he feels the telltale signs of relief and having one of the things crossed off his list. “She is _not_ a child and hasn’t been for a long time in _any_ set of laws on this planet. I think it’d be better for her to go.”

“Thor has a very convincing case ready. I think she’ll be fine.” Bruce says this as he turns to look at Tony. “Tony, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve had this feeling before. That’s where Ultron came from.”

“No, no, I’m not dismissing your claims here, Brucie.” Tony shakes his head and sets his mug down on the bench. “Far from it.”

“What I saw, what I learned – I can’t explain it, Tony.” Bruce gives an almost helpless shrug. “I really _can’t_.”

Tony can see the age visibly now, the haggard lines that not even a shave, a fresh set of clothes and a shower or even a warm meal can get rid of. Years of comfort will probably never be enough to get rid of it all. Sitting before him is the doctor and monster but also a man with far too much knowledge that his mind isn’t able to comprehend because they, as a human race, despite their mutated genes and intelligence, have not reached that level of evolution to stomach something like magic. Tony reaches out to clasp a hand on a bony shoulder, far too slender than what he had remembered from years ago.

“It’s all right, buddy. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Tony.” Bruce says. “Not this time. Running away…” Bruce shakes his head. “Remember how you once told me how upset you were when Steve had outright labelled us as soldiers?”

Tony snorts. “Yeah well, Steve thinks every goddamn person with some sort of power is obligated to be _one_. Or is one.”

“He’s not wrong.” Bruce says. “Not anymore, anyway.”

And for once, Tony cannot find it himself to disagree with that statement.

\--

 

Christmas Eve turns out to be a quiet affair in the manor with frozen dinners and a marathon of Game of Thrones. A few hours before midnight, Tony breaks out the liquor and pours himself and Bruce some wine and continue plowing through the second season when the doorbell rings and Bruce quietly makes his way to one of the rooms upstairs to hide himself. Out of respect for Bruce’s wishes to remain hidden and anonymous in the large manor until he gets on his feet, and until Tony’s test results come back, Tony had set up a secure room with multiple exits in case they get a breach. Friday had been programmed with new protocols to keep Bruce abreast of sudden guests and to provide him with assistance if he finds the need to escape prudent.  

“Boss, uh, Colonel Rhodes is outside.”

“What’s his problem, he’s got access to the manor – wait, is Steve with him?”

“Yes.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Tony swears and gets up to empty the second glass wine into the kitchen sink and put it away into the dish washer.

“I’ve already informed Dr. Banner about the party waiting outside. But –“

“Two people does not constitute as a _party_ , baby-girl.” Tony says dryly, as he heads back to the living room to find his spectacles and tug on a sweatshirt over his tank top. He also cranks up the heat just a bit more.

“They do if they’re not just two. Vision and Mister Barnes are also with them. They have just returned from a training session and Mister Barnes isn’t able to move two fingers –“

“ _Really_?” Tony _snaps_. “Jesus Christ. Patch me through the intercom, Friday.” When he hears the beep and a projection of the camera at the gate pops up before him, Tony feels his face scrunching in distaste at the sight of Bucky, Rhodey, Steve and Vision all decked up in winter clothing and beanie caps. “Can you all hear me? Yeah, no, I’m sorry shop is closed – go away. And you, James – shame on you.”

“I’ll wait in the car.” Steve says and Tony doesn’t argue with that. “Don’t worry about me, Rhodey, I won’t move a muscle.” He doesn’t even wait for Rhodey to agree and simply walks back to the parked vehicle in the empty lot, turns on the engine and gets comfortable.

“Tony it’s Christmas bloody eve.” Rhodey hisses.

“So?” Tony grumbles and turns his attention to James. “Let’s see the arm, James.” Bucky tugs the glove off his metal arm and unzips his jacket to expose some of the plates that had come off, along with a few wirings that are singed black. “The hell did you do?” Tony murmurs and waves the screen off. “Let them in Friday and send that idiot to the workshop. I’ll meet him there.”

“Of course, boss.”

Tony heads straight for his lab then, telling Bruce to stay put; he leaves it to him to decide if he wants to come out and say hello or remain in hiding. Judging from the damage he had seen earlier, Tony starts to take out the necessary tools he may need. Dummy is already wheeling around and making room. Tony is in the process of brewing fresh coffee when he hears the doors slide open and the uncharacteristic sound of boot-steps echoing. He realizes that Bucky is making special effort to be noisy in his steps so as not to startle him.

How considerate.

"This is not how I picture _my_ Christmas eve. Coffee?” Tony asks, pouring himself a cup and taking a slow sip.

“Nah. I’m good. Sorry about this. I know it’s short notice but…” Bucky shifts his arm a little bit and Tony notices how there is a slight jerk. He doesn’t think it is serious as he waves for Bucky to take a seat on the stool, carefully setting his coffee mug down on the work bench.

“Let’s just take a look. Friday, run a scan. Any pain?” Tony asks, as Bucky props up his arm and makes a careful assessment of the damage.

“Well, no, not something I can’t handle…” Bucky says, and looks a touch sheepish, unable to look Tony straight in the eye.

“Scan complete.” Friday announces and Tony looks up to see just exactly what the problem is; a few on the neural transmitters have been disconnected by bent plates and singed metal. The slight jumble of wiring is probably causing what Tony will assume should – theoretically – feel like a very bad muscle cramp.

“Well, it doesn’t look like it’s a hard fix. You’ll be pleased to know that we do not need doctors involved. I’m gonna have to open up your arm.” Tony says and turns to slide over his tool box, propping open the lid. “Get comfy.”

“Sorry.” Bucky says again.

The silence that fills the space in between is a familiar one like that of the weeks they had spent together in the same space in Nevada. As Tony slowly takes the arm apart, he forgets that it his parents’ murderer sitting across from him, watching as he takes off piece by piece to reach the tangled web of fine wires. The sudden jolt that makes Bucky jump up his chair a few inches from when Tony reconnects the replaced wiring makes Tony jerk back too, frozen and tense as Bucky blinks a few times, a hand up in the air.

“Uhhh… you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just wasn’t expecting that.” Bucky says, looking at his arm and flexing his fingers. “Pain is gone though. I mean, it doesn't feel as cramped and numb anymore."

“Okay, good. Can I continue or do you need a break? It’s been –“

“Three hours and a half, boss.” Friday chimes in and Tony rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m good. You can wrap up if you want. Unless you’re tired or something. I can wait. It’s kind of my fault.” Bucky says with another shrug.

Tony approaches the bench once more and resumes putting the arm back together. “What happened?”

“Hand to hand practice with Vision.” Bucky answers. “I did the surgery; it wasn’t as bad as the arm.”

Tony pauses and blinks up at Bucky, and fees relief; Tony knows that it is only the first stage in the process. Barnes is far from done but hey, celebrate small achievements and all that, right?  “It’s already been two weeks since the gala.” It hits Tony like a hurricane to the face because he had been flying from one meeting to the other ever since his trip to London and he had simply lost track of time. “Well, what do you know.”

“You been busy, huh?”

“Yeah, had to fly to Johannesburg after that night in London, then Tokyo, then Hong Kong, then Vienna and then Milan.” Tony tugs a piece of wiring out, examines it and tosses it over his shoulder before hunching over to get a closer look. “Then it was Reykjavic and finally Buenos Aires. Somewhere in the middle, I stopped over Amsterdam. Did you know they have the _best_ _pofertjes_? There’s this little place –“

“You stopped by Amsterdam for pancakes?”

Tony doesn’t understand why _that_ sounds like a bad thing. Tony rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the arm, wrapping the circuitry and carefully replacing the panels he had removed earlier. “Well, _yeah._ ”

It is Bucky bursting out in _laughter_ at Tony then, that Tony realizes what must have been the audacity of his words, that someone like him can make a pit-stop somewhere _just_ for pancakes. The laugh bounces off the walls of his empty workshop and it causes the exposed circuit boards of the arm to jostle with the rolling rumbling humor because Bucky, apparently, thinks it’s _hilarious_ to stop at a foreign country for a bite to eat. So Tony sits there, eyebrows raised and amusement curling somewhere at the bottom of his stomach.

“You’re a piece of work, Stark.” Bucky eventually says, but not unkindly. “Worth it?”

Tony chuckles and turns his attention back to the arm. “Oh _yeah_. Every penny.”

The silence that falls between them is not as thick and just as Tony picks up the last remaining piece to Bucky’s arm, the silence is broken by the audible notification on Tony’s phone. Tony turns his head to the device on his right and sees the alert from Steve Rogers. It is a text message that reads:

_Merry Christmas, Tony : )_

Blinking a few times, Tony sets the screwdriver down and picks up the phone. It’s a minute past midnight. His fingers type out a one-liner too, but pauses when he feels the weight of Bucky’s gaze on him. Tony does not have to ask if Bucky had seen the tiny pop-up, super-soldier eyes and all, even from the weird angle. He can hear the blood rush in his ears, can feel the hard _thump_ of his heart behind his rib cage, and it makes him suck in a slow breath, releasing it slowly through parted lips, an attempt to calm himself down because there really is no reason to make a big deal out of a text. Granted, Steve Rogers has finally discovered the brilliant world of emoticons, still, it’s nothing. A greeting, a text; it is what it is, nothing more.

(So why do you feel like the floor beneath you is starting to dip inwards?)

“He means well, you know?” Bucky says, just as a bit of color dusts over his cheeks and his nose wrinkles in what seems like a cross between amusement and something akin to being unimpressed. “He’s not gonna stop chasing after you.” A beat pauses. “He wouldn’t know _how_ to stop even if it killed him.”

Tony adds another line to the text without thinking.

“I know.” Tony says, heart _banging_ behind his ribcage and hitting the send button before placing the phone screen down on the work-bench and wrapping up the final adjustments on Bucky’s arm. “He didn’t with you. And that’s a good thing. It’s good to know that someone, no matter what, has your back. You’re all set. Try moving it around, gym’s downstairs, Friday can show you. Or whatever. Uh – “

The phone pings again and Tony tries to look casual when he picks it up anlittle too fast and sees Steve’s response to his offer of having him ‘ _come inside and find a spot, get comfy, it may take a while. Pick a room if you want’_ :

_I would like to make you breakfast tomorrow, if that’s okay._

To which Tony types as quick ‘ _okay_ ’ and looks up to find the corner of Bucky’s lip turning up just a fraction.

“Merry Christmas, Stark.” He says, a little too softly.

“Merry Christmas to you too, old man.” Tony says, pocketing the phone to hide the tremors. “I’m gonna call it a night; I’m beat – Friday, would you let the others know Daddy is closing shop?”

“Of course, Boss.”

“Show Barnes the way~” Tony says, quickly making a beeline for the door without trying not to run.

And once he thinks he’s out of earshot, once he’s on the seemingly safe and comfortable solitude of his bedroom, Tony lets out a breath that he does not realize he had been holding the entire way up from the workshop to his room. Tony feels the ground swallow him then, heart racing until it’s all hears, even as makes his way in a daze towards his closet to change, even as he unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. He knows he’s going through the motions of changing, doing something to keep his shaking hands busy. He paces once, feels the drumming of his heart with clammy and slowly numbing fingers, sweat starting to break on his skin – god, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he can feel the slight quake in his knees, now.

Tony ducks into the connecting bathroom, turns the shower on full blast, as cold as it can go and stands underneath it, pressing his head against the tile and breathing heavily through his nose. Tony knows he’s having a panic attack, and he knows that he needs to get his shit together and just put a lid on all the heat that is threatening to just _consume_ him in that very moment. A part of him, something that also fuels the panic, is at war between being logical and being consumed by fear – because no, Tony, this is not heart failure, not this time, your heart Is fine and new and shiny, remember, you fixed it? Reasoning fails though, and there is that visceral heat that suddenly grips him, roots him to the cold tiles of the shower stall, that heat that feels like a fist clenching around his throat _anyway_ and making him suck in long and heavy, cold, wet breaths – the breaths are so hard, and so _desperate_ that it sounds like he is breathing through a collapsed lung. It feels like there is something whistling in his chest and Tony doesn’t know if he’s hearing things, or if his lungs are fucking up, or if it’s that monster again, the one who loves to sing songs and whistle along with words.

He does not know how long he stays under the shower, and barely remembers telling Friday to make sure he is left alone.

(And god, how pathetic are you? If a text message and an offer to make breakfast on Christmas morning – because Steve is a dweeb that way, because he’s _nice_ that way - is enough to bring you to your knees like this that you can barely stand up on your own, then what are you going to do when the sky opens and aliens are pouring in and you have to actually _work_ with Steve Rogers and his team _then?_ You are never going to get better, you are never going to be fit enough to work with him anymore, give it up. Just give it up, Tony.)

_I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay._

The knob turns with a squeak and Tony exhales slowly. It takes three measured breaths before he finds strength in his legs to stand – he does not remember when he had ended up on the floor – and another two to get himself to walk out of the shower. It takes another minute for him to feel like his chest isn’t being ripped wide open, long enough for him to pull a towel and wrap himself in it, shaking like a leaf in the wind because goddamnit, it’s freezing.

But whatever breath he had been sucking in then is knocked out of his lungs when he jerks by doorway at the sight of Steve standing in his room, looking a little sheepish, hands behind is back.

“Jesus!” Tony grits out, a touch vicious, more at himself rather than at Steve, while taking a step back and bringing a hand up to his chest, his other hand coming up and clamping against the doorframe to keep himself steady – _holy fuck_. “The hell are you doing? You can’t just come in here and --” But Tony doesn’t get very far because whatever words he had at the tip of his tongue is promptly silenced by the _look_ on Steve’s face.

It’s that quiet look of appreciation, of gratefulness, small and almost shy, almost like that one memory of what feels like many Christmases ago. Steve’s lips are slightly upturned as he murmurs an apology, telling Tony that the door had been left open, his gaze soft and for once in what feels like a long time, Steve looks up at him through his lashes like Tony is his only focus, his only concern, the one thing he had come for. Steve opens his mouth to say something but ends up making a gesture towards the open door once more – pathetically dorky, _how the fuck is this America’s hero and sweetheart, it’s painful_ \- and then sheepishly rubs the back of his head with a hand. And Tony is left standing there, unsure what is happening, or what Steve wants, or _why_ would Steve even look at him this way, why would he be crossing the distance between them and placing his hands on Tony’s cold shoulders, the temperature a stark contrast and making gooesbumps break all over his skin; Tony’s confusion must have been all over his face. Tony cannot even fathom   _why_ Steve would cup his cheeks and turn his head up from where Tony is trying to look away, trying to blink several times and maybe, just _maybe_ , the mirage would disappear.

But it **_doesn’t._**

Because Tony is looking up at the bluest eyes and like an echo of all those years ago in the cold biting winter of Siberia, Tony can see the flecks of green in the sea of blue. It’s not perfect after all; it must have been in that moment, when Tony had opened his mouth to speak, to say something, to push Steve away, put distance between them, that he hears it, right there as he stands in the middle of the doorway, knuckles as white as funeral orchids. The soft murmur of thanks that feels like a soft breath against his lips, something that sounds too much like relief and all you want to ask is _what are you doing, Steve, why are you here, why are you this close, what do you want from me, are you even here? Why are you thanking me – I haven’t done anything, is it because I let you into the house? You’re pathetic; it’s not a big deal!_

And Steve murmurs his name, and Tony can taste something sweet in his breath, probably some of the Christmas cookies from the pantry.

(It’s not real. It _can’t_ be!)

Tony scrunches his eyes shut, breath coming out heavy and fast like he’s been punched several times in the gut, and he knows he’s outright panicking now, he knows that his throat is starting to close up like a deadly allergic reaction and his lungs feel like they’re collapsing in and on itself. He can feel the trembles and the wave of nausea wash over him making him sick to his stomach, his dinner starting to turn and the taste of acid building up in the back of his throat. He wants to scream, he wants to claw up at his throat and wrench it open so he can breathe and he does, hands coming up but Steve is there, Steve’s hand are about as real as the ones that had held the shield up above his head and had brought it down over his chest. Steve’s hand are on his back and his arms are around him, words soft against his ear because Steve, Captain America, Steve fucking Rogers is telling him:

 _I got you, I got you, Tony, easy, just breathe -- listen to me, focus on me, that’s it, easy breaths, in and out, I got you, and I’m not leaving you. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re perfectly fine_.

(I’m fine! I’m fine! I’m fine!)

And when Tony opens his eyes, when he feels the first inhale of air that smells like soap and musky aftershave, he feels Steve’s fingers on his chin and making him look into that sea of blue-green again. And Steve promises then, right there in the house that had started it all, that he would never leave Tony behind again. He says the words over and over again until Tony feels the pressure on his knuckles ease up and loosen and the sudden taste of cookies fills his mouth. Tony feels his grip on the door loosen, the only thing that anchors him amidst this entire clusterfuck and the warm and firm press of Steve’s lips against his, until he lets go completely.

Letting go feels like the breath Tony’s been denied.

Because he had not _deserved_ it.

Because he had not been _worth_ it.

And there’s nothing Tony can do but let go as Steve yanks him close, their bodies flush against each other. He feels his arms loop against shoulders that are far broader than his own, feels his feet off the ground as Steve _slams_ him against the doorframe in a sudden brust of passion that _shakes_ every fiber of Tony’s being. Tony feels the breath being ripped of him then, a soft noise pushing past his throat as Steve swipes the tip of his tongue against the curve of his lower lip, dipping into his mouth and deepening the kiss; Steve kisses him like he’s waited for _years_ to do so, he holds him like he’s been denied so many times.

Steve kisses him like he’s come _home_.

And Tony forgets everything then, forgets the madness, the bitterness, the hurt and the horrid sense of betrayal. He forgets how or when Steve picks him off the ground again, forgets how they end up on the bed and when Steve strips down to nothing, how his own still numbing hands help in tugging the shirt off and pushing denim fabric off chiseled hipbones. Tony doesn’t even remembers how they fall into the bed, how Steve’s lips wrap around his hardened and weeping arousal, wet and slick and – _oh god, Steve_ \- glistening under the dim lights of his bedroom. Tony doesn’t remember how and when Steve had began to stretch him, or how Steve seems to sink into him, how he peppers kisses all over him, how he murmurs Tony’s name against Tony’s skin and how the warmth that seems to radiate off Steve’s flesh brushes against Tony’s icy one, still cold from the shower, but nerves ignited in a fiery flame that continues to burn, and burn until Tony doesn’t feel the cold anymore. It’s fast, it’s needy, and most of all, it’s desperate – so desperate because Tony can see how Steve rakes down marks down his arms, how his hands leave prints on his flesh from when he grips him, and pulls him against his chest, how his passion _consumes_ Tony until it’s all he _knows_. Tony remembers looking up at the ceiling with his hands underneath his pillow and _gripping_ the pillowcase from where he collapses against it heavily when Steve breaks their kiss, lips wet and slick with saliva and parted, breaths heavy, and right then, as he looks at the spotlight somewhere along the corner of his ceiling, he feels blissful darkness consume him from when his eyes roll back and all he can feel is the heat of Steve’s cock pressing against him, pushing him open, slick and ready and _oh god_ , Tony can’t breathe.

But like everything else in his life, he absorbs it, hungry and eager, like how he had poured over the photos of Steve Rogers, over the articles and the weapons his father had built for Captain America, how hungry Tony had been then. Tony takes everything Steve gives him, needily, _hungrily_ , drags that heat into him like a starved man, like he’s been denied this _pleasure_ and this _release_ his entire life.

Because then Steve is right there, over him, and Tony can feel every inch of Steve’s cock in him, filling his body and stretching him, consuming him, drowning him with a kind of warmth that feels so unreal, and so different from everything Tony had experienced beforehand.

There are no ghosts here. No whispers of a foreign language, no dark shadows over rocky walls, or the smell of battery oil or the feel of sand scraping against his knees, elbows and against the palms of his hand.

_No._

This time, it’s just Steve and the warmth he radiates, it’s just Steve and how he _looks_ down at him like Tony is all he’s ever wanted. This is Steve with a pinch between his brows, and his jaw tight as he shifts and pulls out slowly, and oh god, Steve is so careful, Steve is so gentle like he’s afraid to hurt Tony, limbs trembling with the effort to keep _still_ , to not push into the tightness that Tony knows must feel incredibly _good_ because when Steve pushes back into him, Tony feels Steve’s name roll off his tongue like a begging prayer, their gazes locked; Steve doesn’t dare look away from him, and neither does Tony. Tony feels his back arch off the bed and Steve’s chest press against his, a hand snaking under the pillow as Steve takes hold of his hand and pushes in again, and again, until he builds a rhythm and Tony feels his eyes slide shut and the breath stolen out of him by Steve’s mouth, until all he can smell is the hunger and _need_ Steve seems to exhume, until all he can feel is the scorching desire that he had not known about, because how can he know about it? Steve had kept it hidden this entire time and maybe, in the small instances it had managed to show itself, Tony had completely missed it. A glance across the room during dinner, a held gaze during briefings, that one time they had been on their way home after a fight in the quinjet and they’d been nursing wounds, the casual press of Steve’s hand against his shoulder in a gesture of silent inquiry, moments when Tony explains new gear tech to him and Steve had looked at _him_ not at the _tech_ \-- Tony had missed so many of them, so, so many. Little ones.

But not this time.

Never again.

So Tony opens his eyes, looks into the face of the man who cannot seem to bear to have any space between them, this man who is the world’s hero, a man out of time, a man who has had everything taken away from him too -- he’s not a hero. Not like this, with sweat on his brow and his hair sticking up from where Tony’s fingers had tugged at it earlier. Not like this with his lips bruised from their hungry kisses and his cheeks flushed, lips parted as he catches his breath but not being quite fast enough o catch it just in time, this goddamn beautiful man whose face is pinched in insurmountable amount of _pleasure_ \-- there is no super soldier here.

No  hero, or some poster boy for a political propaganda.

It’s just Steve Rogers.

And Tony feels something in his chest tighten as he watches Steve press their foreheads together and press a hot palm against his face, watches as perfect teeth peek out to bite against a lower lip, hard and accompanied by a soft growl that wraps around Tony’s breathless and silent cry as he sees nothing but the flecks green in the drowning sea of blue. And that is how he comes, and _comes_ , thick ribbons of white shooting up against his stomach as Steve _growls_ against his lips, the hand that had been on Tony’s face now _gripping_ against Tony’s hip as Steve, beautiful, wonderful, _real_ Steve comes too, shuddering and _breathless_ and collapsing against Tony, breathing against his neck.

Tony knows better than to think that what they had just done had been done out of love.

It can’t be.

Love is _dangerous_.

Love is a fairy-tale for children who know no better, because love had been attention, or acknowledgement in any form – be it from a butler who had cared far too much for the pitiful boy who had always been left behind, or from a man who should have been a father but knew no better on how to be one. Love had been soft kisses to the forehead from a woman who had far too many things on her plate and mind.

Love is bullshit! It is a distraction – goddamnit!

Love is for little fucking, needy  _boys_. There is no _love_ in the house of Starks.

There is only responsibility and power and brilliant minds.

Because what the flying _fuck_ do you do with love when you have something better, like _intelligence_?

But when Steve pushes off him and looks down at him, when he brings a hand to brush the hair off Tony’s forehead and looks at Tony like this is what he is meant to do for the rest of his goddamn life, for the rest of _their_ days, Tony feels uncertainty for the first time, his logic and reasoning questioned.

(Zemo had wanted to see the fall of an empire; you’re falling, Tony. You’re falling, falling, falling.)

Because this time, when Steve whispers to him that he will not leave him, that he’s here to stay, like it’s a secret between them, a quiet promise and hushed words brushing against the curve of his ear, Steve’s hand squeezing his own, _this time,_ Tony believes him.

Because this time, Tony knows that Steve is _real_.

\---

Waking up feels easy.

Tony’s eyelids flutter open and he finds himself staring at the stretch of the estate’s garden beyond the glass windows. It’s a slow process of rolling over to his back and finding that he is by himself in the far too large and empty bed, sheets tangled around his middle. There is warmth in his bones as he slowly sits up to push his hair back; it radiates like a wonderful summer’s day, gentle and comfortable. The first thing he does is call out for Steve’s name and Friday responds instead, telling him that Steve is in the kitchen and making use of it.

Tony doesn’t enquire further.

What he does instead, is stare at himself in the mirror, naked and bare, skin unmarred, no trace of what had happened anywhere on him even though the musky scent of it remains all over the sheets. Extremis would have taken care of minor bruising, because a glance at the clock tells Tony that he had gotten a good solid nine hours’ worth of sleep. So it doesn’t surprise him to find that he looks flawless, that he’s alone, that his room looks arranged and well kept, because come on, it’s Steve Rogers, the guy who keeps his shit together, who likes order that had it gone a notch higher more, Tony would have pegged him as someone with OCD.

Tony thinks he should feel apprehension at how _orderly_ things are.

Like nothing had happened.

But Tony cannot shake away the feeling in his bones, that warmth and security that seems to have found permanent refuge under his skin, blanketing him in a sense of security. It feels a little like being inside Iron Man’s protective embrace; Tony feels untouchable.

And that is how he strolls into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile on his face. He finds Bucky, Bruce and Rhodey sitting by the island and Steve working the skillet and pan. There is a row of plates on the counter, with neatly stacked pancakes, fried bacon and the smell of over easy eggs sizzling in the pan. A glance beyond the glass windows tells him that Vision is out in the garden.

“Soooo, how does it feel to have the science-bro back in the picture, Tony?” Rhodey asks, but not with spite. Tony knows an ice breaker when he sees one and simply rolls his eyes in response.

Tony is pouring himself a cup of coffee when he sees Bucky holds out his hand to Rhodey and Rhodey slaps down a ten dollar bill into his waiting palm. “Did I miss something?” Tony asks after the first sip.

“They were betting on your reaction about not sharing information.”

“And James won?” Tony clicks his tongue, earning a flush from Bucky. “Rhodey-cakes, I am _hurt_. How can you _lose_? You’re supposed to be Team-Me!”

“Oh, we on a first name basis, are we?” Rhodey _grins._

Tony shrugs and takes a seat on the island. He flicks Bucky a glance before getting distracted by the look Steve is giving him. “He asked.”

There is something remotely satisfying with seeing Steve try to smother the smile as he ducks his head, busying himself with mixing the batter in the bowl tucked under his arm.

The silence that falls eventually dissolves when Rhodey starts narrating a story that Tony doesn’t quite pay attention to. He’s busy watching Steve measure the last of the pancake batter onto the hot skillet, busy watching him flip them and butter the pan again; he watches as he divides the scrambled eggs into the five plates lined up on the counter and sprinkles a pinch of salt. He watches as Steve’s glance eventually flick over him, how the lines on Steve’s shoulder slowly eases out of its tension. Tony is so busy watching Steve cook that he to blinks towards in Rhodey’s direction when he feels his friend shake him by the elbow.

“You with us, Tones?”

“Mm-hmm.” Tony lies and takes a sip of his coffee; he doesn’t know where the past several minutes had gone, hell, he does not know what they had been talking about to begin with; something about planes? Rhodey is throwing him a look that is making even Bruce quirk an eyebrow. “But more importantly, though, _where_ are the cookies?” Tony says, shifting the subject as he takes a look at his cup then and notices that it’s empty. He stands just as Steve serves everyone a plate of breakfast. From the corner of his eye, Tony can see Rhodey giving him a _look_ , which he pointedly ignores; Rhodey is kind enough to not push the matter and holds his tongue, instead, like Bruce and Bucky, turns his attention to Steve.

“Oh uh,” Steve says just as he sets the last plate down. “Sorry, it’s my fault, I kind of got hungry in the middle of the night and you know, it was on a plate so I kind of ate it. And nothing else was open at the time and I didn’t want to invade or cause more trouble.” Tony blinks a few times because he remembers how massive that cookie basket had been, how it had easily weighed about fifty pounds or so; said basket is now sitting somewhere by the trash bin for disposal, empty and not even a crumb in sight.

Tony’s expression must have said it all because Bruce is trying to smother a chuckle and Rhodey looks downright _amused_.

“Those were pretty some pretty good cookies, Tony.” Bruce chimes in, giving a bit of a helpless shrug.

“Stevie couldn’t stop chomping on them all night, last night. Barely moved his ass off this counter; did you even sleep?” Bucky asks as he stands to take the coffee pot and refill his own cup.

“Yeah, Steve, did you even _sleep_ or were you just so busy eating _my_ cookies?” Tony asks, standing shoulder to shoulder with Bucky and taking a sip of his coffee, amusement curling around the corner of his lips. Because _oh no, Steve; you were eating cookies, just not the kind everyone thinks._ _And definitely not from a basket, either._

But Steve looks past the joking, the familiar jabs that is a reminder of how things had been years ago, before it all had gone to shit during the ‘Civil War’. Steve is suddenly looking stiff around the shoulders, slight tension lining his jaw, like he doesn’t quite know where to put himself. He holds on to his own plate like it’s some sort of anchor. And when he looks up to meet Tony’s gaze, Tony feels his knees go weak just as something cold starts to form in his stomach. There is _nothing_ in Steve’s gaze, nothing of what he had seen the night before and maybe, this is how Steve wants to play it; _which is fine, it’s perfectly fine. Absolutely, one hundred percent fine --_

“I couldn’t sleep. I was here the entire night, didn’t know what to do. Friday was kind enough to give me access to some movies, so I just, well, I ate and watched a couple of movies and -- Tony?”

Tony doesn’t realize how he has taken a defensive step back, mug clanking against the counter, coffee sloshing around the rims. He’s not sure if he is hearing _right._ It takes some sort of special effort to get his throat working again, as he stares at Steve, searches him, tries to see any form of _lie,_ any form of deception there, _anything_ that counters whatever shit that had just left Steve’s mouth. The room feels like it’s bending inwards towards Steve, nausea seizing Tony by the pit of his stomach. Tony feels his hands ball into involuntary fists, knuckles going white as he watches Steve’s eyes widen, alarm setting into those unbelievably beautiful blue – no, they’re blue green -- eyes, not hearing Steve yack about getting him another basket to make up for it, that he had chosen to stay in the kitchen because he had not wanted to overstep his boundaries or his welcome, he had not wanted trouble.

Tony hears nothing of it; he’s too busy trying to wrap his head around one phrase:

“All night?” He asks, voice cracking towards the end of the phrase’s syllable, _breathless_ , because, fuck, he cannot breathe, he cannot swallow, he cannot _think_.

“Tony, I swear I was right here in the kitchen --” Steve’s voice has a touch of hysteria in hit, probably because Tony himself feels like he’s going hysterical.

 “Friday?” Tony asks, sharp like a crack of a whip.

“Captain Rogers had spent the entire night since entering the estate within the confines of the kitchen, boss. Would you like to take a look at the surveillance?” Friday offers.

Tony thinks that the devastation that suddenly swallows him are like hands clawing at the back of his scalp tugging downwards, pressure building at the back of skull like someone is trying to pull his face over the curve of his head. It feels like frostbite at the back of his neck, radiating outwards like spider veins all over his shoulders, down his back and all the way around until he feels stiff and just unable to _move_ , rooted to that spot, _trapped_. And like ice forming on skin, you look at your shaking hands, watch as the first layer peels off to reveal something more metallic, something more alien underneath the flesh, and you know exactly whose hands those belong to.

They’re his hands.

He’s the only monster in the room.

(This is it, this is where you need to make a decision, this is the turning point of all turning points because you have insurmountable amount of proof this time around, it’s not just shadows down the hallways, or voices behind you. It’s not just memories or unsolicited company while your work, while you bathe, while you eat quiet dinners that taste like ash. It’s gone beyond that and you’re intelligent enough to know your own limitations – when it starts _feeling_ real, when you think those shadows and voices actually have a physical body, when you feel it in you, _taste_ it in your mouth, as sweet as probably the truth itself – you know what to do.)

Tony closes his eyes briefly and when he opens them, his hands are his own, yet another deception of the nothingness that resides within the meat-suit that he wears, flesh that cannot be real, flesh that is far too young, too flawless and perfect, nothing that depicts the man lined with age, stress, and an alcohol problem; how can it when it had been fixed by a virus that had practically regrown all his organs? So of course he’s something else underneath it all, of course he is. He always has been -- man who plays judge and executioner, a man who calls the shots from behind the shadows, a man who turns the world to his own personal giant chess board, all of it in the name of making the world a better place and ridding it of the trash that does not deserve to be at the seat of power, is he still a man? Tony had used his ability, his intelligence, his power, to fuel his own agenda – his own goddamn agenda, the one thing Steve had used as a reason to not sign into a law that would force ties that would bind all their wrists together and shift the blame, and here’s Tony fucking Stark, doing the exact thing Steve had not wanted them to be a part of.

All this time, Steve Rogers had been his Agenda.

He still is.

_And in the making of it, you, Tony old boy, you had become the monster that everyone still fears. How does the saying does goes? You are what you make of yourself?_

(I _am_ Ultron.)

Tony looks up from where he had been staring at his hands to meet Steve’s gaze and feels the nothing short of the truth roll off his tongue right then, “I believe you.” Tony says, because oh how he _believes_ Steve in that very moment. Because _why, why in everything holy would you even want me? Why would you try so hard for me? Why would you even think to look back when it had been so easy for you to walk away? Why would I believe you would come to me, let alone for me, that you would want to finally play by my goddamn rules and my goddamn terms, when you never had to truly answer to anybody? Not after DC, not after SHIELD – why, why why – goddamnit, **why** would you want to look at me like I matter to you when I really, **really** don’t?_

(Time to wake up; jokes on you, Tony.)

Looking at Steve feels like crucifixion; he will always be something that Tony Stark will never deserve to have, let alone be a part of.

It is in those precious few seconds, a mere instant, that Tony realizes without knowing that he has made his decision. It feels like an eternity passes when it is merely seconds, and when he looks up at Rhodey, the man who had, if anything, deserved the absolute best from him, Tony shakes his head, _because_ _I’m sorry buddy, I can’t do this. I thought I could, and I almost believed that I can, but what good am I to you - to any of you - if I can’t even tell what is real and what is not?_

 _(_ The truth is, you’ve made your decision a long time ago; the truth is you knew that you weren’t going to be doing any more ‘trying’ when you had finished developing Extremis 2.0. You had known from the start that you were spiraling downwards, that you were out of control, that there was no salvaging what was left in the wake of all your losses, all your guilt and all your failures. And maybe, Rhodey had known it too because you’re looking at him now and seeing nothing but pain in his eyes, you see the reflection of a lost cause in the depths of dark pupils, you know, and he knows – it had only been a matter time.

It had all been a wish upon a star, just like when you were a kid.

Except you know better: wishes never, _**ever** _ come true.)

Bruce stands too and Tony feels his lips twitch into something like a smile, one hand coming up to cover his mouth because he can feel it, something that feels like a scream of defeat forming at the back of his throat.  

“Tony, do you want me to leave?” Steve finally asks and even when it comes out measured, Tony can hear the silent strain behind each syllable, he can _see_ the hurt in those words.

So Tony’s attention narrows down to Steve. There is a calmness in what feels like a silent goodbye and had the situation been any different, Tony would have laughed, would have coughed out a jab or two. But this is it; Tony likes to think his creations are flawless, but he is not naïve enough to ignore the fact that there is always that minor percentage that a ‘prototype’ won’t be as flawless as its intended design.

Tony feels the panic start to ebb away and make room for something that feels like serenity, something completely foreign. He feels his breathing slow down and the room retain some clarity. And when he presses his hand to his chest, he feels his heart slowing down to its resting rate.

“Please stay.” Tony answers, so quietly and so honestly, so goddamn _hopeful_.

And how Steve’s face crumples, how the shield falls to the ground and the cowl come off his face, leaving nothing but the man underneath all the tensile and enhanced Super Soldier strength, that tiny little guy who had gotten rejected time and time again by the military, that one _good man_ – it makes Tony wonder, if he had asked, if he had just _asked_ Steve all those years ago, just him, in his ear, if he had fucking _called_ , _would you have really returned?_

“Of course.” Steve answers, voice thick as he swallows past something, despite the even baritone.

It is more than Tony can ever hope for.

\--

When it happens, Steve is too late.

And he can pin-point the precise moment it had been too late.

It had been that moment Steve had stepped out of the threshold, after their late breakfast and afternoon tea prepared by Bruce. It had been after the soft carolling to the piano that Tony had been too easily cajoled by a suddenly very withdrawn Rhodey. But it hadn’t been the carolling, it hadn’t been the tea, it hadn’t even been the bizarre exchange before breakfast, that exchange that had left Steve’s mind reeling because it looks like – no, he knows what that is. He knows that look that had crossed Tony’s face in that exact two seconds.

It had been the look of a man who knows he’s going to be missing something important.

It is the look of a man coming apart and having no fight left in him to scramble after the collapsing pieces.

And those alone hadn’t been the last coffin to the coffin.

It had been the _smile_ , small and shaky around the edges that Tony had given _him_ as he bid him goodbye and thanks. It had been the _thank you_ that didn’t quite feel like it had been directed towards breakfast. Throughout the entire drive towards the campus compound, Steve had poured through everything that had happened from the moment Tony had stepped into the kitchen for breakfast. He thinks of how different Tony had been then, relaxed, easy, _and responsive_ and not quite as guarded. He thinks of Tony had watched him the entire time as he had worked on the remaining batter and eggs, how brown eyes followed each of his movement, how the slight and almost lazy ghost of smile lingered around the corners of Tony’s lips. Steve thinks of how Tony, much like him, had not been paying attention to the chatter that had filled the kitchen, because they had been so busy looking at each other, feeling the air around each other – or at least, Steve had been trying to gauge things. The way Tony had looked at him, like Steve had been the only man in the room that had merited his usually busy and always occupied attention, the way Tony had _slowed down_ just to _look_ at him – Steve remembers how heavy the pan had felt in his hand. Or how the heat seems to radiate from his ears.

Steve isn’t blind.

And he isn’t stupid.

But he isn’t sure _where_ that kind of attention may stem _from_.

(Are you _sure?_ Is that how you’re going to be about this?)

Steve can feel a migraine start to build at the back of his skull, as he replays each instant over and over again in his mind only to reach the same – _you’re evading_ – conclusion.

That is, until his phone vibrates in his pocket and Tony’s text message reads:

_If I had asked you years ago to come back, would you have done that for me?_

Steve doesn’t hesitate in his response:

_Yes._

And it isn’t lie, not anymore, not now, anyway, Steve realizes – too late, always too fucking late. But it is no longer a lie when he looks at the reflection of Bucky from the rear-view mirror, his oldest and closest friend looking right at him and shaking his head because Steve knows that Bucky knows it too, that nagging and clawing feeling of something that is about to happen and not quite knowing what; Steve knows better than to not trust his own instincts and everything, from the moment he had stepped out of Tony’s house, had told him _not_ to leave.

(You had wanted to stay, you had wanted to make him lunch too, you had wanted to sit by the piano and listen to more renditions of Christmas Carols, or whatever, anything – you had wanted to _stay_. And then you didn’t.)

Tony response pops up: _Don’t lie to me._

And Steve doesn’t; he can’t: _I would have done everything to try to make it work; no matter how long it took._

It is the three word response that makes Steve turn sharply to Rhodey and press a hand against the dashboard of their vehicle:

**_I believe you._ **

“Turn around.” Steve says abruptly, sharply, and Rhodey looks at him incredulously and mildly startled. “Rhodes, _please_ , turn around and take me back to Stark Manor! _Now!_ ”

The tires screech as Rhodey makes a sharp swerve and takes the first exit, narrowly missing the car next to them and steps on the gas pedal, completely ignoring the sudden blast of car horns from the irritated and equally startled motorists.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, rearranging himself in the backseat.

“Tony is going to erase his memories. Or kill himself trying.” Rhodey answers, grinding his teeth.

“Wait, what? You know this and you’re not even – aren’t you his goddamn friend?” Bucky _snaps_.

“Damnit, I fucking tried, okay!” Rhodey _roars_ , his voice filling the small space of their car. “Do you think I haven’t tried? Have you _met_ Tony Stark? Once he’s made up his mind, there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that _I_ can do. And I thought – man, I thought maybe, just maybe it would be better for him! I couldn’t change his mind! Today made that very clear! But maybe _you_ can.” Rhodey throws a sharp look at Steve who meets it head on. “ _Steve._ ”

And Steve hears it, that pleading note in Rhodey’s tone, that extremely loud cry for help from a helpless man who is but an emotional prisoner.

Steve turns to look at the road, watching the cars zip past they; they probably break fifty road rules in minutes, robably acquiring dozens worth of speeding tickets. But they they drive in icy silence and when they do not move fast enough, Vision’s hand comes on Steve’s shoulder.

“Captain Rogers, we will make better time if I take you there myself.” He offers.

The screeching of the breaks and sharp yank of inertia does not hinder Steve as he unbuckles his seatbelt, steps out of the car and braces himself as the ground disappears from under his feet and Vision cuts across the highway and stretch of green, heading straight towards Stark manor. And when they reach the front lawn, Steve hits the ground running and doesn’t even think as he pushes past the front door and his voice cuts across the almost always cold house, Tony’s name echoing all across the empty hallways and empty rooms. He tears down into the kitchen, and takes a peak into the gardens before climbing up to the bedroom. When he finds nothing, and runs back down to head for Tony’s workshop, he finds Bruce appearing behind at the curve of the stairwell.

“Steve?”

“Where’s Tony?” Steve asks, _breathless,_ panicking, heart racing behind his chest because no, _no, no, maybe, he didn’t do anything, maybe he just went to a meeting, or something, or maybe he’s working on a suit, or something._ “Is he here? Did he leave? _Friday!”_

“He was. He said had a few meetings to wrap up at Stark HQ and had to leave for a night or two – what’s going on?” Bruce asks, voice forcibly even and calm.

Steve curses, “Friday, goddamnit!“

But Friday does not answer and Steve does not blame her. It is not in her control.

So Steve wastes not another second and races down the hallway, past the staircase that leads to the connecting workshop and starts to take down the reinforced and almost indestructible glass door when it doesn’t open, throwing punch after punch until Vision asks him to step aside and cuts through it with an incinerating yellow beam. It rains glass as the doors comes off and that is when Steve comes face to face with three armors, palms and repulsor rays directed at him, glowing and ready to fire if he dares take another step forward. They do not fire though and they do not move from the spot they are standing guard around, a form and shape that looks like Tony but isn’t because it looks like it is decaying, black and rotting; there is blood - _oh my god -_ all over the floor – _so much blood_ \- and Steve feels the breath getting knocked out of his lungs and it reminds him, of a lifetime ago, when the winters had been so cold and his asthma would render him weak and useless and sometimes even bedridden.

Steve cannot move.

He cannot even _speak_.

The world around him dims for a brief moment and Steve finds himself stumbling backwards a step and then another until he feels Bruce behind him.

Rhodey must have arrived at _some point_ because that is the only time Friday makes her presence known and begins to explain that Tony is currently encased in Extremis’ shell, which is to be expected as Extremis rebuilds ‘everything that is misaligned and incorrect’ within its host. There is something in the way the AI had worded those facts that had made Steve feel like he had just lost _something_ , like it had been yanked out of his chest by sharp claws, leaving behind a gaping chasm. He finds no comfort as Friday pulls out vitals for Rhodey to show that Tony is alive and well, because Rhodey is the only with security clearance and access; the rest of them do not. They are warned against disturbing the process in great detail about everything that may go wrong if they even _think_ of interrupting.

And when twenty four hours go by and shell starts to crack and come apart like wet and slimy, starched gauze being ripped open, when Steve finally looks up from the spot on the stair case he does not remember when he had sat on that step or how long he had been sitting on that step, when Tony emerges from Extremis’ embrace like a drowned man breaking the surface of the sea and the suits drop their guarded stance, Steve sees it when Tony looks right at him and _nothing_ reflects over the depths of what Steve thinks, and still believes, are the eyes of one of the most intelligent and attractive men on earth that he has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

There is _nothing_.

Tony looks at him and blinks and cocks an eyebrow; _nothing_.

And it feels like Peggy all over again, when she would forget who he is, where he had been, because age and disease had taken that strength away from her.

Bucky’s hand squeezing on his shoulder brings him no comfort, nor does the cheeky humorless smile that Tony’s face suddenly stretches back into; it is unnatural and hideous, mechanical and _alien_.

Steve does not recognize it at all.

This man is no longer Tony Stark. He cannot be.

Tony Stark is dead.

_I’m too late._

\--

Vision had read somewhere that there are many ways to be brave in this world. Sometimes, bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself, or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater. Vision thinks, if going by the context of Veronica Roth, then he is of the opinion that Tony is a brave man.

Brave men, though, are often foolish.

Vision is not exactly sure how the nanotechnology and virus had worked, but that it had probably done what it had been intended for. Tony’s functionality had returned to what Rhodey had called, ‘normal before the drama’.

Vision thinks that it is _too_ early to make a final assessment.

It is too early to say that it had been an absolute success.

If there is anything that Vision had come to understand, is that the human mind far too delicate and far too complex to be easily manipulated even by a genius like Tony. The complex network of thought, emotion and chemicals are not so easily swayed; even when the supernatural is involved, as Vision had been made privy to, the mind can still break its bonds if it is pushed hard enough to do so.

(That is the beauty of humans; they are limitless in possibilities when it comes to their genetic make up.)

Tony had been pushed over the edge and had chosen his intelligence to survive for the benefit of mankind – because his work isn’t done, there is still so much more to do – as opposed to his own _self_. Or whatever that had been left of himself, at least. There is nobility in that act itself. 

(Then again, you know that in all of mankind's history, tyrants often start noble, too.)

Vision does not think, at the moment, that Tony Stark _is_ a threat. He does not think, as he stands guard by the vehicle several yards away, watching Tony place a bouquet of white lilies by two tombstones that this new reformatted version of Tony is out to do harm to mankind. It has been three days since the incident in the workshop at Stark Manor, and already, Tony is endeavoring himself to further the reach of the Maria and September Foundation. His entire functionality, so far, is almost like clockwork.

(No harm in routine, right?)

So Vision does not think much of it when a man in a coat and cane approaches Tony by the tombstones. He does not think much of it when Tony turns to look at the disguise Nick Fury himself is donning on, listening to the words the man had to say, and seemingly agreeing to it. Vision thinks that being around humans had taught him to be whimsical, to be more curious, and in this case, to _want_ to be more vigilant in his guard.

(Because you cannot deny that even with Tony being more focused, with less distraction, he is a reminder of what Ultron may have been, had he not grown a rogue conscience of his own. And isn't that thought just a little staggering?)

Vision does not hide his presence.

And Nick Fury doesn’t flinch.

“I’m being offered to be a politician.” Tony says, turning to Vision and giving him a cheeky smile. The kind he had always flashed to the media when he is poking fun at cabinet member of a country or even the head of state himself. “Can you believe that?” Vision watches as Tony’s smile fades to something more neutral, how it just drops from the playfulness to show something more matte, something that reflects _nothing._ Like this, Tony is unreadable. “To superheroes. From the shadows. Well, sour-patch, you know I’m always up for a challenge.”

Vision isn’t looking at Stark.

He is looking at _Nick_.

And Nick is about as unreadable as Tony himself.

(It is men like him, that you have to always watch out for.)

“Am I to believe that you are now emotionally stable to actually do some _real_ work? That you’re actually willing to do the necessary to keep our world safe?”

“That was the idea, yeah. Daddy’s here to work.” Tony holds his hands out and flashes nice a smile that does nothing to soften the corners of his eyes; if anything, they make them look like reflection-less pools of darkened amber. “Like I said, I got no strings holding me back.”

Vision says nothing, but feels something very minute uncomfortably shift somewhere in the back of his mind.

(You’re worried, aren’t you?)

 

FIN

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, I CAN HONESTLY SAY THIS IS DEFINITELY FINISHED.
> 
> I had hoped to flesh out an official pairing by this chapter, but I think it is quite obvious that SteveTony still has HOPE. But wow, what a ride! On a side note, this fic has betrayed me on my quest to write SteveTony. But I feel it has set a good premise for hopefully a more positive Stony outcome in the sequel. Slow burners -- damnit.
> 
> I am currently working on the sequel to this and it will hopefully have a lighter tone to it; I can't say it's ready because I'm still waiting on Doctor Strange next week to make that final decision; how that movie goes will definitely impact the sequel since MCU is now moving towards the world magic~
> 
> But gosh, wow, if you have reached this far, then please let me just say: THANK YOU, THANK YOU! For hanging on to this story, for giving it a chance and for following! I have been disgustingly terrible with responding to your comments but be assured I read all of them and squee along with you all!
> 
> THANK YOU!
> 
> Till next time! <3


	10. Sequel

Sequel: [YESTERDAYS](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8671087)

Summary:

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Everything seems to be in working order; except one day, after hoping and hoping for a chance to set things right, to prove what he had meant in his letter, that he'd be there for Tony when Tony needs him, Steve is given the opportunity to. It just isn't what he had expected it to be. Not by a long damn shot.

Notes: Aaaaaaaasaaand after forever, it is up! Hope you will give this a chance as much as you did with Rebirth :)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore?
> 
> This is new territory for me.
> 
> To be honest, this is my first time dipping my toes into anything Marvel related in terms of fic or writing (I am vaguely considering RP as well, but hey, baby steps). I've always wanted to write something Tony related, and years later, here I am. Go figure, it had to be after CACW.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Perfect Human Isn't Human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203770) by [caps_facialhairbros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caps_facialhairbros/pseuds/caps_facialhairbros)




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